


A Proper Mandalorian Courtship

by kmandofan90



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Combat, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Implied Child Abuse, Kind of serious crack, No use of y/n, Not Beta Read, Paz Vizla needs to work on his flirting game, Paz and Reader are both hopeless dorks, Paz is going to be a great dad one day, We Die Like Men, cursing, descriptions of combat, passing mentions of violence toward people, suicide/implications of suicide to avoid torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 101,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24397774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmandofan90/pseuds/kmandofan90
Summary: Mandalorian courtship is very simple: declare your interest in someone, spend time together if they reciprocate, and get married after a year or so. Getting married is even easier – simply swap the vows and announce it a few days later to the Tribe so you can all celebrate the happy news. Then spend the next few months fending off the nosy Elders (who all want to know when they can expect to hear more little feet on the ground). At the end of it all, Mandalorians court the same way the rest of the galaxy does.Except for Paz Vizla. Despite his Traditionalist background, he goes about this courtship and marriage business in a very nontraditional way...a very, very, very nontraditional way.[10/21/2020 - Rating has gone up.]
Relationships: Paz Vizla/Original Female Character(s), Paz Vizla/Reader, Paz Vizla/You
Comments: 226
Kudos: 360





	1. The Armorer and an Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter story in a very long time. 
> 
> I’ve been working on this since February. It’s been finished for a few weeks now, but I’ve been procrastinating in posting because I have had such a hard time justifying why Paz behaves the way he does even though we only see him for like 3 seconds in the series. I’m not sure if anyone else does this, but I like having a reason to write a story, even if it’s just to get the fluff out. For this, I wanted to flesh out Paz’s character for future works, but I have had such a hard time figuring out the words for it that I just...didn’t post. It felt wrong to continue forward without being able to explain to myself why he does what he does. Something that plexflexico on Tumblr said in one of their responses to a review I left resonated with me and finally inspired me to post this publicly.
> 
> “Paz might have had less than a minute of screen time, but that time was VERY enlightening because both scenes were at moments of great tension and high emotion. I felt that any man who could succinctly put his people’s plight into words, and was so angry over this betrayal by someone who should have known better that there was no way this was simply a brute. This is a man who thinks and feels, deeply.”
> 
> This. This is exactly what I couldn’t find the words for. This, to me, is Paz Vizla. I have seen stories/HCs that portray him as a brute in an attempt to show him as a strong, confident, and masculine character. I am not fond of that portrayal because it lacks depth. I don't see that from a man whose culture embraces competency and skill before gender or sex. For those of you who have not read Asterism, go do it now, I promise you will love every single word. Plexflexico perfectly captures every emotion and thought of each scene just perfectly. This is Grade Amazing Super Plus Rank writing and Plex deserves an award for their work. And also for the inspiration because her Paz is the man everyone who wants a man deserves to have in their life.
> 
> My tumblr: anxiety- riddled- mando.tumblr.com  
> Plex's Tumblr: plexflexico.tumblr.com  
> Asterism: plexflexico.tumblr.com/post/613238837943189504/asterism-part-1

The Foundry is the most sacred place for any Tribe blessed enough to have one of its own. It is the physical manifestation of the _Resol'nare:_ education and armor, self-defense, the tribe, the language, and the leader. Here, children and new recruits receive their first set of _beskar'gam_ and swear their oaths to follow the path, making the Foundry the spiritual birthplace of every member of the Tribe. At night, when the work is finished, and the flames are dimmed, the young and old gather within so they may learn from and educate one another. Most importantly, this is where most individuals begin their first lessons in Mando'a, under the guidance of the Elders. The foundry is where the armaments are made and dispensed for the protection of each person and the Tribe as a whole. When a hunter returns with their offerings, they return to the Foundry, and disperse it to those who depend upon them for sustenance and care. Finally, the Foundry serves as a place for the leadership to gather. 

Armorer has had the distinct honor and privilege of being both armorer and leader to her people, though she is now only the armorer for the tribe. Upon joining with tribe Marell, she relinquished her role as the _alor_. However, the respect and authority she commands is not diminished in any capacity. Should _Alor_ Dezha not be available to decide on a course of action, the Tribe will come to her, and her decision will be both supported and respected. Dezha respects her a great deal, and he will often seek her opinion if his path is unclear. Despite the differences in their interpretations of the Oath, they have come to live in harmony with one another. They strengthen what is weak in each other, and that is how it should be in a flourishing tribe.

Tonight, she once more has the honor of being part of a marriage ceremony. Lifting the hammer, the Armorer brings it down onto the glowing ingot of metal, watching as it flattens slightly underneath her blow. She continues to strike the metal with slow, methodical precision until it reaches the proper thickness. Then the Armorer takes it back to the flame, where she allows it to glow blazing white. It only takes a few moments, and she returns it to the anvil. The steady _clang clang_ of her hammer is punctuated only by the occasional trip to the flames.

The union of two Mandalorians in marriage is – and always has been – a joyous occasion, for that union brings forth stability for the children and the Tribe. Traditionally, the parents take turns hunting, or if the Tribe has the numbers, _both_ parents will hunt together, and leave their children in the care of the rest of the family. Having that one trusted person, the one who knows their every strength and weakness by their side, leads to success, both in the field and at home.

She pauses once more to check the metal. When she sees it is properly folded, she divides it in half, and begins to form each blade precisely with her smaller hammer. Two Mandalorians, forged into one soul and body by marriage, whether they are together, or they are apart. Two blades, made from a single piece of steel, to symbolize that union. When they are formed to her satisfaction, she takes the blades to the oil vat and quenches them swiftly.

Then she returns to the forge, narrowing one of the flames to begin the differential tempering process. Here, the tang and the edges of the blades will be hardened to resist shattering, yet the spines will remain flexible, so that they may flex as needed. Once joined, the couple hardens themselves to outsiders; instead, they will turn their affection and respect inward, so they may grow together. Where one is brittle, the other is flexible, and together, they become stronger than they would be individually. She withdraws the first blade from the flame just as the pale amber color creeps to the edges of the blade and plunges it directly into the water bath to cool.

It takes hours to sharpen the ceremonial blades on the grinding belts, but she works steadily and carefully, honing the edges with precision. The hilts are left bare; they will be wrapped by the parties entering the marriage. When they speak their vows, they will exchange blades, so they may carry a piece of the other with them when they are physically parted. She nestles the blades into separate boxes lined with soft fabric. When she delivers the blades tonight, the newlyweds will handle the rest on their own. Armorer lowers the heat of the flame before she returns to her quarters. There she draws the curtain across her living space. Exhaling, she takes a seat at her low table with a pot of hot tea to await the arrival of the Elders to acknowledge the marriage. Her shoulders are tense and tight. It is a good sign of hard work.

It has been _many_ years since she has witnessed a proper Mandalorian courtship unfold and blossom into marriage. The Armorer has known from the start that Paz would be the one to _fully_ embrace the traditional ways. Now, he has chosen to make himself an example to the younger Mandalorians and enter the bonds of matrimony. Her heart swells with pride as she imagines the future progeny they will gift to the Tribe, whether they are born or found. However, she takes the time to close her eyes and pray to the spirits. The newlyweds will need guidance.

Hopefully, the wedding night will not result in nearly as much structural damage as the courtship had.

-

-

-

The first time Paz ever laid eyes upon you was shortly after the Armorer had finished negotiations to join with yours. It took nearly three weeks of negotiations, but your Tribe had ultimately yielded. No sane _alor_ would turn away a dozen seasoned Hunters and their children, anyway. Paz admits that he did not find you all that impressive at first. You were – and still are - pretty average. Your armor at the time consisted of a _bes’kar_ helmet and a steel chestplate that looked like the Armorer’s. Everything else was made of leather.

Tradesperson, he thought to himself, and he put you out of his mind.

As time went on, Paz came to like you, and even enjoy spending a few minutes with you here and there as his duties allowed. Even though you openly admitted that were an average warrior (at best), you did your job freakishly well. You had made your desire for a large family vocal, and _that_ , combined with your skills, had caught the attention of several Hunters visiting to deliver the latest news. According to the Elders, the offers of marriage had come flooding in the instant you completed your first hunt, even though you hadn’t completed it until your twenty-third birthday.

When the average Mandalorian completed their first hunt by their nineteenth.

_And Paz completed his on his seventeenth._

It didn’t take long for him to understand how you earned the loving-yet-frighteningly-accurate nickname _shu’shika_ from the Tribe – you truly are a _tiny disaster_. You are dearly loved by your Tribe, but there is a tendency for things to break while you are around.

You are stubborn to a fault. That Paz can deal with. Over the past thirty or so years, he has had plenty of practice to out-stubborn his subordinates, and he always wins. The same holds true with his bounties. With you? There have been a few situations where he has come dangerously close to cracking and losing his temper. It is only your terrible self-defense skills and his affection for you that keep him from simply putting you in a headlock until you submit.

_Paz sometimes wonders if you provoke him on purpose because you know he will not throw fists with someone who lacks proper training. He takes no pleasure in winning a fight if it was never a true fight to begin with._

Far too often, you get mouthy with him, to the point where he sometimes wants to grab you around the waist and launch you straight into the lake for being such a brat. You are never truly disrespectful, but you have no problem telling him what you think. Even when he does not ask for your opinion. He does, however, appreciate your honesty with him, since others are usually too intimidated by him to be as direct as you.

_You’re kriffing fearless, to the point of recklessness. His threats to launch you into the lake have gone from true threats to playful teasing, and it always earns a laugh from you._

Your forgetfulness…it is truly obnoxious. At this point, he has stopped reminding you to pick up your shit. He has grown used to simply picking up your things off the floor (or the couch, or the tables, or the showers), stuffing them in a bag, and dumping it all on your table in the workshop. Just like everyone else in the Tribe does for you. Or, if he wants to see you, he will pocket your datapad until you come wandering into the common areas, and hand it over without a word. It never ceases to amaze you that Paz somehow seems to know exactly what you are looking for.

_Paz has no doubts that if you ever set your bucket down, you will lose it. He kind of finds it endearing. But only from you. He has no problems holding armor, weapons, or personal property for ransom if some idiot leaves it unattended._

If there is even a single power cable in a wide-open room, you will invariably find it and trip over it. Stairs have to be clearly marked with vibrant tape to remind you of their existence _even though they’ve been there for ten kriffing years_. Your navigational skills are nonexistent. It is all Paz could do to refrain from simply attaching a tracker to your backside to keep you from getting lost whenever someone takes you to the market.

_The first time he had taken you to the market, he had lost you within forty-eight seconds. He had panicked the entire time he looked for you. Fortunately, he found you trying to dig enough money out of your bag to buy some ice cream, with no regards as to how you were going to eat the kriffing ice cream with a damn bucket on your head._

Sometimes, Paz feels like his relationship with you is going to give him a full head of grey hair before his fiftieth birthday. But he thinks you are the most beautiful disaster he has ever seen in his life.

You get his dumb jokes and laugh at his silly puns. You let him steal the end pieces of the bread when you bake. You _try so damn hard_ to improve your hand-to-hand combat skills, even when Doctor Shen threatens to tie you to a bed to keep you from hurting yourself. You turn to _him_ first when you want to learn a new technique. You play hunters-and-prey with the children for _hours_ , like you don’t care that the others are grumbling about you spoiling the kids. You listen to him ramble about whatever random topic he has picked up that week, and while you may not know anything about it, you ask questions and take the time to learn more about what makes _him_ happy. You even offer to share your _tiingilar_ with him, even when you only have a quarter ration of it.

He has spent most of his forty-four years alone in life. His eight-year relationship had ended exactly ten years ago when his partner chose to commit adultery. He had been on the verge of proposing marriage when he caught them in his bed. Neither had been wearing their helmet. It was a privilege his partner had never granted him, even after nearly a decade together. After that gut-wrenching betrayal, something had shattered in him. Paz invested himself in his work fervently, his bitterness turning him away from the possibility of a long-term relationship. Now that he is older and wiser, he feels a sort of emptiness to his days. Like his successes mean nothing without having someone to share them with. He wants someone there to encourage and support him in his hunts. Someone who is not as cynical and burnt out from the constant threat of death and war. Someone who still has that _shereshoya_ – that Mandalorian lust for each new day and every experience that it brings. That brightness in your soul draws him to you like a moth to the flame. It is your hidden gentility that has him so happily trapped in your orbit.

He wants to make you strong where you are weak.

He wants you to make him strong where he is weak.

Seeing you waiting for him at the shooting range brings a spring to his step. Hearing your laughter at one of his awful jokes makes him glad he wears a helmet so no one can see the ridiculous grin on his face. Smelling the sweet, flowery soap that you use makes his knees go all wobbly, though he’s not sure if it’s from affection or just from age. Just feeling your hand brush up against his makes him turn into a sweaty, flushed mess.

Paz Vizla feels like he’s strapped to the wing of a TIE fighter spinning out of control as it plummets to the ground below, or something like a fully-grown rath’tar has wrapped itself around his heart to _squeeze_. His belly is jam-packed with spice-crazed minochs and his heart is pounding wildly. When he thinks about kissing you one day, maybe just gently pressing his helmet against yours, his heart gets so full he can barely breathe.

You make him Feel Things he has _never felt before_.

Paz Vizla turns into a hot _kriffing_ mess under his armor when he is around you, and he wants off this malfunctioning jetpack.


	2. Hurt, Healing, Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is that feeling where the world falls out from under you  
> and it feels like you're drowning
> 
> [Alternatively: tighten your jetpacks, this ride's gonna get bumpy.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Mentions of child abuse, violence, and a lot of cursing. No graphic details, just a passing mention of certain situations that have occurred. If you're on a PC, you can hover over the italics to see translations and stuff. If you're not on PC, or on a phone, you can find translations in the end notes.
> 
> The flashback occurs ten years before the story is currently happening.
> 
> Also, your nickname is Shu'shika. It means tiny disaster. I've been trying to format the HTML for this update for two hours now, I don't think I can handle any more of the text popups right now. _Save me._
> 
> Can also be found at anxiety- riddled- mando.tumblr.com  
> [btw, I have anon asks turned on if anyone wants to leave an anonymous comment. I'm also accepting prompts for other one-shots for Din, Paz, and Armorer so I can practice my writing.]

[flashback]

The bright sunlight fills the clearing, bringing a touch of warmth to the smoky, frosty morning air. High up in the trees, the birds flit from branch to branch, watching the proceedings with unabashed curiosity. Occasionally, tiny creatures fight amongst themselves, scolding each other with a flurry of chirps.

Grinning, Paz sidesteps Neten’s blow easily, clamping down on his bracer tightly. Using the other man’s momentum, Paz latches onto Neten’s extended arm and pulls hard, causing him to lose his balance. Once he stumbles forward, Paz gives him a good shove, sending him careening forward into the soft grassy earth. A low ‘ooh’ goes up from the crowd as Neten trips and slams into the ground with a heavy thud. Paz nods, holding back, giving Neten enough time to recollect himself.

“Nice form, good strength,” Paz says, to encourage the younger man. “Let’s go through it one more time. Then we’ll break for water.”

“Sounds good, _alor'ad,_ ” Neten says.

“Swing at me,” Paz orders. “And I’ll show you the best way to…”

He trails off when he receives notification that his door alarm has been disabled. His brow furrows as he considers it for a few moments. Neten falters.

“Uh, you still with us, _alor'ad_?” Neten asks.

“Yeah, sorry,” Paz said. “Swing at me.”

Paz recently upgraded the locking mechanism to keep the kids out of his candy stash. He does not mind sharing, but when six kilos of candy disappear in one week, he has to put his foot down. That, or the other parents would strangle him. Paz shakes away the feeling of unease and catches Neten’s fist in his. Grasping firmly, he halts Neten’s attack, freezing him in place.

“You’re trying to build up momentum from too far away. See how this leaves you open while you're swinging? Get in a bit closer,” Paz says, showing Neten how his previous attack left him vulnerable with a solid blow to the gut. “Stick a bit closer and – “

The door chime goes off again. Then it disables itself a second time. Zeli said she would be busy helping in the kitchen today. Paz frowns.

“Uh, right. When I push you forward, roll into the fall,” Paz says. “It’ll give you some space to work. Now, try it again.”

Neten swings a third time. Paz pushes him harder this time. Instead of falling, Neten curls his body forward and rolls into the fall. He comes up on his feet, but quickly loses his balance. He falls over.

“Shit,” Neten sighs.

“Just takes practice,” Paz says. “Get up, you’ll get it right.”

After walking him through the proper counter a few times, Neten finally manages to roll directly onto his feet and absorb the momentum with his knees. Then Paz turns to the crowd.

“Partner up,” he says. “Neten, you partner up with Fen.”

As he assigns partners, he chooses to place the most advanced fighters with the novices to ensure they teach the others. Paz finds he still cannot shake that weird feeling in his gut. Something nags at him until he decides to go investigate.

“Revala,” he says. “Keep an eye on these idiots for a minute?”

“Sure thing _alor'ad,_ ” she says, coming forward. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah…I just need to check on something,” he says. “No more than a few minutes. If they give you any backtalk, you have my full permission to make them run until they drop.”

“Yes, sir,” Revala exclaims gleefully as she turns back to their drilling _vod,_ “Alright, losers, I’m in charge, and I’m going to make you suffer.”

“ _Gaa’tayl, alor'ad!_ ” someone yelps.

Rousing laughter fills the clearing at the plea for help.

“ _K’atini!”_ Paz snaps over his shoulder. Wimps.

He turns toward the entrance to the hideout. Their current home is situated deep in a granite canyon. It was at one point some sort of pirate bolt hole, but over the decades, other Mandalorians had come and gone, making the space larger and adding some basic furniture. It is cramped, but it is well-hidden and easy to defend. Not only that, the family quarters have separate showers, a perk he does not hesitate to abuse. He makes his way down the main hallway, avoiding the fistfight between Din and Terys.

“If you two are going to slap each other like whiny little _aruetiise,_ do it outside,” Paz snaps.

“He ate my _uj’ayali_ ,” Din snaps in response. “I was saving that, you dickhead – “

“I didn’t eat your fucking _uj’ayali,_ ” Terys grunts as he elbows Din in the side.

Paz shakes his head and continues toward the living quarters. Winding through the hallways, he finds himself surrounded by a throng of scuffling children. He breaks it up with a firm growl and sends the guilty parties to time-out. At long last, he comes to his door. As his hand hovers over the pad, he feels that sense of dread worsen, like a block of lead has suddenly materialized in his belly.

Paz almost hesitates, but he pushes forward. Something isn’t right here. He types in the code and watches as the door silently unlatches and swings open. He steps into the living area, his feet heavy and uncooperative. That feeling in his gut warns him to stay silent.

When he sees Zeli’s boots on the floor, he frowns.

He sees the second pair, hidden just out of sight, at the same time he hears Zeli’s cry. Paz inhales sharply and turns toward the bedroom, thinking that someone is actively forcing themselves on his beloved.

“Yes, Liam!” she cries out, stopping him in his tracks.

Paz can only stare, his stomach roiling violently at the sight of the two figures entwined under the light sheets. For several seconds, he stands there, frozen. Taking in the sights and sounds of their lascivious coupling. The wet slap of sweaty flesh meeting and Zeli’s throaty, animalistic keening. The way her short pink nails dig into Liam’s shoulders. The way he fervently fucks into Zeli, repeating what Paz had done with her just hours before.

“Oh, gods, Liam! Harder, h-harder!” she sobs, her sinewy body arching under his.

“ _Ni copaani hailir gar,_ ” he pants. “ _Gedet’ye, cyare."_

From here, he can see her digging her heels into his backside. The raised red welts she has left along his spine and shoulders. The livid bite marks along her shoulders.

As the harsh, unpleasant shock starts to set in, he feels his lips and face go numb, a deafening roar filling his ears. His chest tightens as he tries to tear himself away from the lurid scene, only for his gaze to land on the couch.

They had placed their helmets on the seat - her cherry-red helmet next to his deep grey helmet, the forehead ridges pressed together in a sweet kiss. As if to mock him. Paz turns his stinging eyes to the low table. The pieces of their armor are arranged neatly on the table. It is clear to him that the lovers had taken turns stripping each other, piece by piece.

This is not an act of drunken, frenzied passion.

This is a deliberate act of practiced intimacy.

In the years Paz and Zeli have been a couple, building their future together, she has not once asked him to use blindfolds. She has never once asked to break down that one last barrier keeping them from tasting each other’s lips for the first time. Yet here she is, fucking one of their closest friends in his bed. All while stringing him along with the promise that they will be one, that they will remove their helmets for each other for the first time on their wedding night.

How many times has Zeli allowed him to debauch her in their bed? In the same bed where Paz professed his love for her for the first time? The same haven where they spent countless hours in each other’s sweat-slick arms, fantasizing about the warriors they would eventually gift the tribe? How many times has he run his fingers along her breasts and inadvertently dragged his fingers through the dried remnants of another man’s sweat and saliva?

Revolting nausea fills him, that numb feeling creeping through his entire body, leaving him feeling so empty and cold. As his hands begin to shake, he clenches them into fists at his sides, his breath coming in shuddering pants as he struggles to not fucking sob. Bile rises in his esophagus, leaving his throat feeling bloody and raw.

Why?

_Why?_

The question keeps chasing itself through his thoughts as the agonizing knot in his chest threatens to tear him apart. He hears a giggle from the bed as Zeli flips Liam onto his back, the sheets shifting to reveal the delectable curve of her lower half, plump and succulent as she starts to bounce on his cock.

“Come in me, _cyare,_ ” she purrs to him.

“A-are you sure? You’re not - not - contraceptive – “

“Paz won’t know,” Zeli laughs. “He’s desperate for kids.”

Those words are the catalyst for his rage, like a lit match dropped into a barrel of volatile jet fuel.

Incandescent rage unfurls explosively in his chest, evaporating the cold sorrow that had once filled him in an instant. He feels his blood pressure and heart rate spike, leaving his vision thin and black and pulsating at the edges. Paz takes one menacing step toward the doorway, his entire body trembling as he struggles to contain the inner maelstrom of hatred.

It would be so, so easy for him to make them suffer, to make them feel the bone-deep agony they have inflicted on him. All he has to do is step into the bedroom. Look at their faces. Break the blood-oath of secrecy they had sworn to uphold a second time. By seeing their faces, he is a witness to their identities, and they will not be given the option to marry.

With just a few more steps, he can destroy them; he can take away everything and everyone they have ever loved. He can make Zeli’s worst nightmare a reality – she will lose her father, her sisters, and her friends. She will have only her lover by her side. Liam will be declared _dar’buir_ by proxy. They will both be exiled in their dishonor and shame.

Suddenly, he sees Zephyr’s gap-toothed, mischief-filled grin and he comes to a grinding halt.

Zephyr was broken when Liam had found him huddled in the burnt-out husk of his ancestral home. Raiders had tortured his family and forced him to watch as they were killed, one by one. After they had taken their amusement, they had beaten Zephyr, leaving the young boy to die alone in the wastes. It was only by pure fortune that Liam had seen the smoke and gone to investigate, thinking it was his prey.

Instead, he had found a mute six-year-old boy wrapped in a ragged, blood-stained blanket, his tiny, emaciated frame covered in a multitude of bruises and lacerations. It took three years of love from the Tribe for the boy to speak again. After those first words, Zephyr had risen from the ashes of his shell, soaring like the celestial _starbird_.

Zephyr had finally found his voice and his _manda_ , bringing life and light back into his eyes.

His gut wrenches and a new type of agony lances through his heart. It pierces him, wounding him so deeply he physically cannot breathe. He bites down hard on the sides of his tongue to stifle the sob threatening to escape his throat. His teeth break skin and the taste of copper fills his mouth. Paz cannot do it. He cannot be the reason Zephyr has to relive the loss of his family.

He will not be the reason the light leaves Zephyr’s eyes again. No amount of agony inflicted upon him - a grown man - could ever justify harming an innocent child for the sake of revenge.

Paz forces himself to exhale. Blinking, the tears finally fall, burning their way down his cheeks before finally soaking into his beard. Stiffly, he makes his way back to the couch and picks up their helmets, taking Zeli’s in his left and Liam’s in his right.

Acrid bitterness fills the shattered remains of his heart as he looks down at Zeli’s helmet. The paint on the forehead ridge has worn away from the many passionate kisses they have shared. Cynically, he wonders how much of that paint was worn away by Liam. How many embraces have they shared behind his back? How many times have they bared their fucking _souls_ to one another in his bed?

Paz turns back to the door and exits, leaving the couple to their tryst. As the door clicks shut behind him, he suddenly feels intense exhaustion, his armor suddenly becoming stifling and heavy. Each breath feels like tar in his lungs as he leans heavily against the wall opposite the door.

“Hey, Paz,” Din says, coming toward him. “Bad news. Your idiots outside managed to set something on fire – “

Seemingly sensing something wrong, Din comes to a halt an arm span away. He leans forward slightly, coming to his side, in a show of brotherly concern.

“ _Ori’vod_ ,” Din says softly. “Are you okay?” Paz draws in a great, gasping breath, his gaze still fixed on the door.

“Not in the least bit, _vod_ ,” he admits hoarsely, his voice breaking.

Din looks down at the helmets in his hands and comes to the only logical conclusion. He hisses through his teeth.

“I will drag them to the Foundry like the worthless fucking _hut’uun_ they are,” Din hisses, his fingers flexing as he takes a step toward the door.

“No,” Paz says immediately, shaking his head.

“Why the fuck not?” Din demands sharply, his voice rising to an angry roar. “They betrayed the Oath, Paz!”

“Din, keep your voice down,” Paz says, ushering him away from the door and toward the Foundry. “I know what they did.”

“He called you his brother,” Din snaps angrily. “She called you her intended. They are liars, they broke their Oaths - !”

“Zephyr,” Paz says, his voice cracking again. “I don’t want to risk…”

The rage leaves his brother in an instant. He deflates like a wilted desert orchid. Din sighs gustily, looking between him and the door.

“What can I do to help, _vod_?” Din asks quietly.

“Just keep people away from me for a while,” Paz utters. “Armorer…she will know what to do.”

_Gods, he prays she knows what to do._

“Absolutely,” Din says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll always be here, _ori’vod_.”

Paz swallows thickly and nods, not trusting himself to speak. When he has regained control over his legs, he starts the long walk to the Forge. Each step feels like he is scaling some sheer cliff, the air thin and frosty in his lungs. Din runs interference, keeping the people trying to get his attention at bay. Pausing, he closes his eyes and considers what he is about to do.

_ Aliit maan bal solus kyr’yc. _

He knows what the right thing to do is. Paz just does not know if he can do it.

For the first time in his life, he finds himself questioning his faith.

* * *

[current]

Armorer is in the middle of brewing a pot of her favorite tea when she hears footsteps in the Foundry. She looks up and sees Paz poking his head around the main doorway. That simple gesture brings back many memories of their earlier years together. Armorer has left the door to her private quarters open, the curtain drawn back, inviting those in need of guidance into her home.

She reaches for a second cup just as he reaches to knock on the door frame. Even though they’ve been family for nearly three decades, he still insists on knocking.

“Paz, join me,” she says.

He steps inside, ducking his head in a polite, respectful greeting.

She turns back to the chipped tea pot. Their new Tribe introduced them to the concept of tea, and now, she indulges every afternoon. Paz joins her and pulls a metal straw out from his gauntlet.

“What brings you here, Paz?” she asks, as the scent of the hot, spiced tea permeates the air. He stares down at the cup, tension filling his massive frame.

“I wanted to ask your advice on something,” he says in a serious tone.

She remains silent, her brow furrowing.

“I’ve taken an interest in a woman,” he says. “And I want to ask her to be my partner. I want to know more about proper courtship traditions.”

It is only through years of experience and training that she does not jerk in surprise. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. She is somehow surprised and not surprised at the same time. He has gotten to that age where a hunter starts staying at home for longer periods of time to teach their skills to the next generation. Although he is also bound to be lonely, she cannot recall him mentioning a partner.

She knows her friend, and she knows he will not entertain the idea of a serious relationship without the promise of marriage. After what the _aruetiise_ had done to him, he had thrown himself into the hunt, turning his back to the possibility of marriage. Or anything long-term, really. The wounds were so deep she did not think he would ever fully heal.

He – like the rest of their kind – has been shaped from birth by hardship and struggle. He has had to fight for the victory of every single sunrise. Despite the crushing setbacks in his personal life, Paz has held his head high, always teetering on the edge of fully embracing his _mandokar_ , the ideal virtues of a Mandalorian warrior. It is that lost lust for life that has held him back all these years.

Now, he is ready to move forward, to hunger for each moment and experience in his life. Throughout the years, Armorer has seen glimpses of the warrior he could become. He is on that path now. Her heart fills to the point of overflowing for him.

She nods once.

“You know of our Tribe’s tradition of exchanging blades before the vows are spoken,” Armorer says.

Paz nods.

“What about here?”

“ _Alor_ Dezha has remarked that the Elders prefer to publicly acknowledge that the vows have been exchanged before the wedding night physically occurs. They typically do this as part of the wedding feast. Ultimately, it is your decision. You may choose one, both, or neither. As you know, we make do with with what we have. We do not have rigid rules in place.”

“That’s less complicated than I thought it would be,” he responds. “Nevertheless, I want to do this the right way for her. I think I’d like to do both.”

She is truly pleased with the news. If he is interested in entering the _riduurok_ there is a chance he is also interested in rearing offspring. He will make an excellent spouse, parent, and teacher.

The youngest child here is eight years old. In just a few years, he will be fitted for his armor, and he will no longer be a child. Armorer and many others have expressed the desire to hear more little feet in the hallways. Hopefully, Paz will continue doing what he does best – inspiring and encouraging others through his leadership and his unwavering dedication to the _Resol’nare._

Perhaps the other Hunters will begin reconsidering their unwed statuses so they may finally begin to increase their numbers once more.

Paz fidgets with his cup for a moment, breaking her from her reverie.

Now, she must satisfy her curiosity.

“Who has caught your attention?” the Armorer asks, keeping her tone casual and light, even as her thoughts whirl with plans for the feast and bonfire celebration. 

Her thoughts then leap to naming ceremonies, but she restrains herself. They will need time to settle in as a married couple before producing or finding children.

“I want _Shu’shika."_

Armorer blinks in response.

“ _Shu’shika_ has caught your attention,” she confirms, carefully keeping her voice neutral, to give herself time to think of an appropriate response.

“Yes. How do we go about this courtship business, then?"

How unorthodox. Yet, as she considers it, she can see why he wants you. Paz has always appreciated the company of those who put the Tribe before themselves, and you are no exception. If a hunter or child has need, you will forego sleep to ensure they are properly cared for. Nothing will keep you from caring for those around you. Your dedication and loyalty to the Tribe will never be contested. With extra training, Armorer can see you shaping up into a halfway decent warrior in time.

“What exactly do you wish to know, Paz?” she asks curiously.

“How?”

Armorer blinks, though he cannot see it. She had not been ambiguous.

“What do you mean _how?_ ”

“How do I convince her to agree to courtship?” he clarifies, giving her what she interprets as an expectant look.

A furrow forms between her brows as she stares at her companion. Based on the rampant, unbridled scuttlebutt, there is no shortage of available and willing partners for a hunter of his stature and skill. She herself had once harbored an attraction to him, though that had been roughly two decades ago when she was just a feral, hormone-riddled teenager with far more free time than common sense.

“Most people start by asking their interest out on a date,” Armorer says slowly.

“A date,” he repeats.

Armorer almost sighs. Perhaps she had overestimated Paz’s general intelligence level.

“A date is an activity wherein two individuals assess their mutual compatibility and – “

“Armorer, I know what a date is. What does that even have to do with courtship?”

"Courtship is dating, Paz, but with the intent to marry, and no carnal relations."

" _Oh_. That makes sense. And how do I get her to agree to this?"

“How do you normally secure your partners?” she asks bluntly.

Paz recoils ever so slightly.

“I have only had a handful of one-time arrangements…since…”

Well. That is unexpected.

“Paz, you must simply ask,” she responds. “You are one of our best hunters. There are many who are interested in having you as a partner. I am certain she will be flattered by your request.”

“…but how? I haven’t asked anyone out on a date in eighteen years,” Paz says. “I honestly don’t know what people do on dates nowadays.”

“Just ask her to accompany you on an outing,” she responds.

“So, like…shooting? Do people even still go shooting on the first date?”

“Just pick something you know she enjoys,” Armorer says, faintly annoyed.

“Alright, I can do that,” he says. “One more question, Armorer.”

“What is it?” she asks.

Despite her affection for the older man, she is unable to keep the annoyance out of her body language. Maybe the age-old Mandalorian saying still holds true today: three braincells for the entire Tribe and the _Alor_ holds two of them for safekeeping. However, _Alor_ Dezha is a Hunter down to the marrow in his bones...perhaps it would be best to leave the braincells in the possession of a Tradesperson, where they won't risk being eaten.

“You’re a woman, aren't you? So, tell me: what do you ladies like on dates?”

She is so offended and incredulous that she splutters indignantly at him. As she struggles to come up with a proper retort, she becomes aware of his shoulders shaking.

She tightens her jaw. He always has been able to get under her plating to chafe at her like no one else. If anyone else had grown the balls to ask her something like that, she would not have hesitated to put her hammer through their skull.

“Paz, _get the hell_ out of my room.”

He erupts into boisterous guffaws as he thumps his fist onto the table.

“Would you want chocolates? Flowers? The severed heads of your enemies?” he gets out through his giggles.

“I will _goor_ your ass into the Forge,” she says in amusement, reaching for her hammer in warning.

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, he gets up to leave, and he hightails it away before she can make good on her threat.

Armorer smiles under her bucket.

She hasn’t heard him laugh like that in a long time.

He will be just fine.

* * *

Paz paces nervously around the table for the fifth time, pausing to try and flatten the curling plastic tile underfoot. When that fails, he continues on his path around the table. Paz stops when the door opens. Din strides in, closes the squeaky door behind him, and takes a seat. The chair groans under his weight as he leans back.

“So, what’s got your bucket straps chafing?” he asks.

Paz immediately regrets asking for help. Especially from Din. But, being his brother through both vow and combat, Paz trusts no one else as much as he trusts Din.

“I need some advice,” Paz says carefully.

“What sort of advice?” Din asks, his helmet tilting a bit to the right.

“I want you to swear you won’t tell anyone,” he says firmly.

 _No one_ needs to know about his lack of experience.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Din says.

“Swear it,” Paz stresses flatly.

“Alright, alright,” Din says.

“On my honor, I swear I won’t tell anyone about anything we’re about to discuss.”

Paz takes a deep breath as he struggles to come up with the words needed to explain his unique situation. How the fuck is he supposed to even ask about this?

_Has Din ever even been on a date before?_

Gods above, he is too old for this shit. 

“Does this have anything to do with those problems men your age typically get?” Din asks suddenly, breaking the silence. “You know, below the codpiece?”

He gestures down toward his crotch, as if his words were not mortifying enough.

“What?” Paz asks incredulously.

Din holds both hands up as if trying to defend himself.

“Look, Paz, every rifle malfunctions eventually,” Din says in what he might think is a comforting tone. “Especially when a man starts to get into his forties and fifties – “

“No, stop. My di - that part of me is just fine,” Paz snaps in annoyance. “I’m not that old, you little shit.”

“Oh. Okay,” Din says. “So, what is it? You’ve been acting really strangely for the past few weeks.”

Their _buir_ did not raise either of them to be a _hut’uun_. He can do this, get those words out. He is a grown-ass man and he can be direct. Fuck delicacy. That kind of bantha-shit doesn’t work for Mandalorians, anyway.

“There’s a woman I’ve taken an interest in,” Paz says. “I’d like to give her a proper courtship. I was wondering if you had any input on where I could take her on a date.”

Din doesn’t react. For a moment, Paz wonders if Din even heard him. As the seconds tick by, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead seems to grow louder. Then he hears a choked wheeze from his modulator, one that sounds like someone is strangling a _de’kath_ bird with piano wire. Din’s shoulders shake violently as he starts to howl with laughter.

“You’re – you’re coming to me for advice on dating?” he gasps out, “Me? Din Dumbass Djarin?”

Paz falters at the mention of Cara’s affectionate nickname for Din. He shrugs once in response. Then he sinks down onto the table and crosses his arms.

“Yeah. Half a braincell is better than none, right?”

Din goes silent for several seconds.

“Holy fuck, you’re serious,” Din whispers. “Paz, I can barely keep my shit together. What makes you think I, of all people, would know anything about dating?”

“I haven’t been on a proper date in eighteen years,” Paz says dryly to Din. “I don’t know how this shit works anymore.”

A pregnant silence follows.

“Din, I’m over Zeli. I’ve been over her bantha-shit for a few years now,” Paz says. “I am ready to try something long-term again.”

“Fuck,” Din breathes. “We’ve all been wondering…if you’d…you know.”

“Stop wallowing in my self-pity and move on with my life?” Paz asks sardonically. “The past few years…I have been working on improving myself. Figuring out how to best honor the _Resol’nare._. All the stuff we were supposed to figure out years ago.”

“Paz, I’m happy to hear that,” Din says. “I’m glad you’re going to be you again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paz says, waving off Din’s comment. Shit, this is getting too emotional for him. “Whatever.”

Din snorts.

“Anyway. As for dating…I mean, there are better people to ask. I really could not help you with the dating thing.”

“Surely you’ve had a partner,” Paz says. “I’ve heard rumors about you and Cara.”

“Cara wants the simple things in life: good beer and to regularly beat someone's ass,” Din says. “I just so happen to be good at both finding good beer and getting my ass beat. When I asked her out, she almost pissed herself laughing _at_ me.”

“Well, she said yes, which is more success than I’ve had,” Paz says. “I don’t know shit about this. The only people who care about courtship are the Elders.”

“And you now, apparently,” Din argues back.

He does have a point.

“Well…she means a lot to me. She isn’t a temporary arrangement,” Paz says carefully. “I’d like to do this the right way for her. So she knows I’m serious. And that I'm not just after...sex.”

Din inhales deeply, tapping his fingers on the table as he stares at the wall.

“Well, _buir_ once told us that women like providers. So, go find a really big _marsh deer_ , kill it, dress it, and bring everything back to her,” Din says, shrugging his shoulders. “Women like meat and leather, right?”

His tone is as uncertain as the way Paz feels about presenting you with a dead animal. They stay silent for several seconds.

“I’m fairly certain _buir_ was joking when he told us that,” Paz says slowly.

“Huh,” Din says. “You know, now that it’s been said out loud…it does sound kind of ridiculous. _Shit_.”

They stay quiet for several moments, considering how truly fucked they both are when it comes to relationships. They’ve both had the occasional pleasure arrangement. And pleasure arrangements only require interest and about ten minutes. After his dumpster fire of a relationship with Zeli went down in a fiery, messy explosion, Paz never really considered settling down for _marriage_.

_Why is this so damn difficult?_

Din sighs, breaking him from his reverie, and tilts his helmet in his direction. It’s a sort of acknowledgement, an understanding that they are both committed to figuring this courtship business out together. Paz supposes that Din’s going to have to learn a few things, too, if he's somehow going to convince Cara to stick around with him for more than a few months. At the very least, Paz is grateful that Din picked someone smarter than himself. At least their children will have one intelligent parent.

“So. Who is it that has you acting all emotional, all ready to get domesticated?” Din asks, waving his hand around a bit.

“ _Shu’shika_ ,” Paz says. “She’s…she’s the one I’m interested in.”

Din’s head snaps up so hard and fast that Paz hears his vertebrae crack from here.

“What?” Din asks. “ _Shu’shika_?”

“What the fuck is with that tone, Din?” Paz snaps irritably. “If you’re going to insult her – “

“What? No, no,” Din says. “I’m not insulting her, no way. She doesn’t seem like your type, Paz. She’s…uh…not the most athletically gifted. Or the best at...hand-to-hand combat.”

That is the most diplomatic tone he has ever heard from Din and it pisses him the hell off. Paz does not like the idea of someone insulting you.

“She’s perfect the way she is,” Paz says flatly.

Din holds his hands up in surrender.

“I’m not judging your taste in women,” Din says mildly. “I was just…uh…surprised. I thought you’d go for someone like Nayel, or maybe even Revala.”

“They aren’t _Shu’shika_ ,” Paz says, shrugging.

Nayel and Revala are both warriors and hunters, the two of them direct competitors for their age and skill group. Nayel has even made a few passes at him, but her hand against his doesn’t send that little bolt of tingling pleasure radiating up along his spine. She always wants to fight with him. While he appreciates having good sparring partners, he sometimes wants something quieter.

“Well, we are both shit at this,” Din says. “So, we treat this like any other battle to be fought and won. What intel do you have for me?”

Paz starts to list the data, growing more comfortable as he settles into the comforting routine of what he does know how to do. Win a fight. Then again, he isn’t sure if he should be looking at courtship like it’s a battle to be won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alor'ad - Captain  
> Vod - comrade, mate, brother - different contexts based on the people involved  
> Gaa'tayl - help  
> Aruetiise - outsiders, traitors. When used to refer to an outsider, it's not an insult. It's just a state of being. When used to refer to a Mandalorian, it's an insult.  
> Uj'ayali - Mandalorian cake made from ground nuts, fruit, spices. Delicious.  
> "Ni copaani hailir gar. Gedet'ye, cyare." - "I want to fill you. Please, my love."  
> Cyare - beloved  
> Dar'buir - "Divorce" from a parent, like disowning them. Rare, usually only done if the parent is a shithead.  
> Starbird - Star Wars creature that is basically a phoenix. It's supposedly reborn in the heart of a star, etc.  
> Manda - Soul, that which makes someone Mandalorian  
> hut'uun - coward, an egregious insult  
> Aliit maan bal solus kyr’yc. - Family first and the individual second - randomly made this saying up.  
> Mandokar - the virtues of the ideal Mandalorian - aggressiveness, tenacity, loyalty, and a lust for life.  
> Riduurok - love bond between two spouses, marriage  
> Resol'nare - The six tenets by which all Mandalorians abide. Short version: "Education and armor, self-defense, our tribe, our language and our leader all help us survive."  
> Alor - leader  
> Goor - Goore --> Grenade --> You toss a grenade --> Therefore goor is the Mando equivalent of yeet. Humor from Tumblr.  
> De'kath bird - something I made up. Sounds like a raven, a tuba, and a paper shredder got together to make an ugly-ass baby.  
> Shu'shika - Nickname I made up using shu'shuk (disaster) and -ika (diminutive), means Tiny Disaster. Because Reader is a tiny disaster.


	3. A Hard Decision and Minor Setbacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not as bad as last chapter, but still a bit emotional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> karyai - Gathering place, basically where Mandalorians hang out  
> pyjakk - Critter shamelessly stolen the Mass Effect 2 franchise.  
> kov'nynir - to headbutt  
> hypospray - the thing that they use in Star Trek to replace a hypodermic needle  
> datapad - what Star Trek envisioned as the ultimate portable communication device

[start flashback]

On the eve of his twelfth birthday, the Empire rained hellfire and destruction down on his people, slaughtering them while they slept in their tents. Paz initially thought it was the thunder of the impending rain, but the screams and the smell of fire quickly dispelled that notion. When _buir_ threw open the tent flap and ordered him to help in rallying survivors, he knew that war had come for them.

Paz dodged gunfire and explosions, hiding behind what little cover remained, as he helped round up the survivors. He stopped to check every tent, even when the smell of blood and other bodily excretions indicated otherwise. On his last trip back from the burning fields, his father gestured for him to stay with one hand.

 _The other tents are too far_ , Mar said, _I need you to go calm the children down._

Paz did his best to calm them, scooping a sobbing child into his arms. The little boy was badly burned but they had no medical supplies. Seven-year-old Din sacrificed part of his shirt to wrap the wound. When the adults ordered them to fall back to the ships, he knew it was bad. Then Mar turned to them.

_This is no place for you. Take the ship and run._

Paz and Din tried to stay behind, to fight and die with their _buir_ like warriors. He was on the verge of successfully evading the arms around him when his father reared back and punched him. The blow stunned him, giving Mar just enough time to give him one last embrace. Then the adults physically tossed his limp body into the hold of the ship.

 _We will march side-by-side again one day, my sons_ , Mar had said to them, _for now, protect each other. We will send someone to look after you as soon as we can._

Those were his last words to him.

No one ever came for them.

Armorer – her name long forgotten to all but the two of them – was thrust into the position of _alor_ through the virtue of her position as an apprentice. She rose to the occasion like only a Mandalorian could, her voice calm and collected as she gave the orders to go. Paz’s hands were shaking so hard he could not hold the steering yoke steady, so Din scrambled into his lap to help. Together, they laid a rough – but acceptable – trail that pursuers would not be able to follow. Then they hid, coming out only for food and medical supplies, and for Liam to listen at the comm system for any updates.

It was not until they saw the bounties plastered on every news network with their names and faces that they realized the Empire had stolen the recruit rosters. It was agreed that for the sake of their continued existence, their helmets would never come off, and they would take their identities with them to the grave, much like how the members of Deathwatch had protected their own identities on Mandalore.

For months afterward, they scavenged what they could, often resorting to outright theft to simply stay alive. Occasionally, they found an adult Mandalorian who would help, but they were often swamped with survivors of their own. No matter what, the adults _always_ stayed long enough to teach them, to help them learn to fend for themselves. They moved on after learning what they could from them, slowly becoming competent hunters on their own. By the time they found their first safe home, their numbers dropped by four, all lost from complications relating to their injuries. He still remembers hearing Armorer crying when she thought she was alone.

Even now, Paz can still remember what his _buir_ smelled like: he smelled like spicy leather, soap, and _bes’kar_. Home. _Safety_. He smelled like acrid smoke and despair. _Loss_. The decades have blurred the details of his father’s face. All he has is that last embrace they shared, the soft sound of his father’s voice, the squeaking of his leather glove around his shoulder. Paz does not even know if Din remembers what their father even might have looked like anymore. He had been so young when it all happened.

Paz swallows around the knot in his throat.

Zeli and Liam, the two eldest of their rag-tag tribe, had been there the night they had all agreed to never remove their helmets; they were there to swear a blood-oath of secrecy to protect themselves, each other, and their future warriors. Only their immediate family – their one spouse and the children raised within that union – would ever know their faces. How? Why? Even now, Paz desperately hopes that there is some reason for it, that they had agreed to marry behind his back, but he knows it is not true.

They had broken their blood-oath for a quick rut.

Paz feels his heart harden. The needs of the Tribe come before the wants of the individual. Their _collective safety_ comes before a quick fuck. The heat leaves him, only to be replaced by stony, cold resignation. By presenting their helmets to Armorer, he will make it known that they have seen each other’s faces. Regardless of what Liam and Zeli have done to him on a personal level, he has a duty to uphold the oath of secrecy he swore those years ago.

Now that he considers the oath he made; he wonders if they would have made the same decision had they been a few years older. How much of that decision came from being terrified preteens desperately grasping for some semblance of control over their broken lives? Was any of it logical? Perhaps not. But he would not change the decision he had made that day for anything. Without that oath, he would not be the man he is today.

He is a man of integrity and honor. No personal feelings will change that.

He strides into the Foundry, shaking off the lingering remnants of doubt. The air is warmer than normal; it is thick and heavy with anticipation. The flames have been dimmed just enough to keep the Forge at operating temperature. Armorer is nowhere to be seen. He strides toward her personal quarters and knocks firmly on the door.

“I am occupied at this time,” Armorer’s muffled voice says.

“Armorer, it is _urgent_ ,” he says.

He hears noises from within. Then the sound of the latch being removed. She opens the door and it swings open silently.

“Come in,” she says as she turns into the narrow, cramped room. “What is the matter?”

Paz simply places the helmets on the nearest crate. For a split second, she does not understand what she is seeing. But then, it becomes clear as day that she has figured it out - her entire body stiffens, her hands curling into fists. She lifts her head, the inky blackness of her visor boring into his.

“ _Where. Are. They_.”

“Still in bed,” he admits.

“They have shown their faces to each other, and to you. For this egregious violation of our oath, there is no recourse,” Armorer says, each word icy and sharp.

“Not to me,” Paz cuts her off quietly. “I…I did not look.”

She stares at him, her hands tight around the handle of her hammer

“You did not look?” she asks.

“No, Armorer, that I will swear to you on my honor,” Paz says, his voice cracking a bit.

“Ultimately, this will be a Tribe decision, and you will be summoned to explain.”

“I understand,” he says.

He follows her to the _karyai_ and takes a seat out of the way as she puts out an urgent notice to summon every adult. He is completely numb now, like he is watching the events around him unfurl from a distance. Normally, the room is filled with chatter and laughter, but now, it is filled with a grave, unsettling silence.

Once everyone is gathered, Armorer places the two helmets down on the table, the visors facing the rest of the Tribe. Those of them who had sworn the blood-oath to secrecy know what it means immediately. Those who were brought into the ranks afterwards only knew the implication of adultery.

Hannah, their eldest member, rises to her feet.

“Were you the one to make the discovery, Paz?” Hannah asks him. “How?”

“Yes,” Paz confirms to her. “This morning, during training, I received notification that my door had been opened twice. I upgraded the alarm because I somehow lost six kilos of candy in a week.”

Weak laughter filled the _karyai_ at his implication. The children are like little piranha-snakes in the water, circling at the first scent of blood. They can sense the presence of candy from a klick away.

“Zeli said she would be helping in the kitchen,” Paz said. “But something felt off about it to me, so I went to investigate. I found their helmets on the couch.”

“And you did not look?” Hannah asks.

“I did not look at their faces,” Paz repeats, speaking each word clearly. “I swear that to you on my honor.”

The murmurs now sound like the buzzing of an overturned hornet’s nest, sharp and grating.

“What do you propose we do with them, Armorer?” Hannah asks.

“This must be a Tribe decision,” Armorer says. “Because their identities are known only to each other, they have the option to marry. Otherwise, they will be exiled from us. I’ll give you one hour to discuss the matter amongst yourselves.”

Armorer sits at the front of the _karyai_ as _Alor_ , watching as her people argue amongst themselves. Some discuss the good they have done. Others discuss their other failings. Those who had not sworn the Oath seemed disturbed at the demands for them to be exiled.

Surprisingly, no one considers Zephyr’s opinion on the matter, or how he might suffer as a result of their actions. All that is brought up is who will take the boy in as their own if Liam is exiled. Paz does not voice his opinion, even though all he wants to do is shout at them to consider the child’s needs.

At the end of the hour, Armorer stands. By now, their tryst has undoubtedly ended. Now they must wait for their verdict. Paz wonders if they feel that same cold feeling of dread in their bellies. The Tribe have never been in a situation like this before, so they do not have voting banners. She improvises using the cargo hooks on the wall. She hangs her hammer on one and her forge tongs on the other. Then she steps back, folding her arms under her chest plate.

“Exile under the hammer, marriage under the tongs,” she says. “Hannah, you may go first.”

Being the eldest one here, Hannah has earned the privilege of setting the tone for the voting process. She does not hesitate. Hanna plunges her dagger into the wall just below the hammer. Paz feels his stomach sink. He can only hope the others vote for marriage. Once every adult has taken their turn, the votes are equally distributed between the two sides, as he suspected would be the case.

“Paz, you have not voted,” Armorer says to him.

“I voted when I chose to not look at their faces,” Paz says. “Anything more would compromise me further.”

“Make it official,” Lanell challenges.

“Why didn’t you look at their faces?” another voice challenges.

“Yeah, why didn’t you?”

Everyone is staring at him.

“I did not want to risk hurting Zephyr,” Paz admits, his throat tightening. “I don’t…I don’t think he should suffer his father’s reprehensible behavior.”

He clears his throat as he listens to the quiet murmurs from behind him. He continues to try and make them understand now that he cannot unduly sway their vote.

“Zephyr is twelve, nearly thirteen. He has already begun his transition into adulthood. The next few years will be an extremely emotional and volatile period for him. I did not feel that revenge was a good enough reason to risk damaging his mental health.”

“You’re a better person than half of us here,” Terys mutters darkly.

“So why don’t you vote?” Lanell asks. “What do you think is the best outcome?”

“I swore an oath to protect my identity to protect this Tribe. If I vote for marriage, I vote to allow leniency for anyone else who may choose to break their oath and endanger us,” Paz says tiredly. “I also swore an oath to protect every child in this Tribe with my life, if necessary. If I vote to exile them, I vote to potentially cause Zephyr intense mental and emotional harm. My hands are tied, no matter what I do.”

“Would any of you here vote to force Paz to break an oath he swore?” Armorer asks the crowd.

No one so much as twitches at her words. Paz thanks his Tribe silently for not forcing him to vote and compromise himself. He never thought he would be in this position, where he might have to choose which oath to break.

“This is the Way,” Armorer says.

Some of the voices, including his, respond in kind. He hears unhappy grumbling from some of the others. Before Armorer can speak up, Zephyr crawls out from under one of the tables. Paz freezes and his stomach drops to his feet. His entire body goes ice-cold. How long had he been there, listening to them discuss exiling his father? The twelve-year-old boy stands up and pads across the concrete floor, his footsteps as quiet as a whisper.

“Zephyr, this is not your place,” Armorer says flatly, “You will return to the nursery immediately.”

Zephyr, in an uncharacteristic fit of disobedience and disrespect, completely ignores the Armorer as he comes to the wall. He stares up at the daggers embedded in the wall, clearly counting where the votes had fallen.

“Zephyr, I will not tell you again,” Armorer warns, her voice growing forceful.

The boy’s chin wobbles.

“ _Alor_ , did my _buir_ break his promise to you?”

“Zephyr,” Paz says gently, “This is not your place. Come on.”

“I am going to be thirteen in four weeks, sir,” Zephyr says. “Please, _Alor_ , tell me. Did my _buir_ break his promise to you? And to the Tribe?”

The silence is deafening. Paz looks to Armorer. Only she can answer this question.

“Yes,” Armorer says, her voice quiet and exhausted.

“And _buir_ betrayed you too, Uncle Paz?”

Paz cannot stop himself from flinching at the boy’s words. Paz would have preferred Liam to just shoot him and leave him for dead. It would have hurt less, and Paz could have probably forgiven him for it eventually.

“The exact details are irrelevant,” Armorer says. “But yes, your _buir_ did betray his _vod._ ”

Zephyr looks up at him, then at Armorer. He sniffles and wipes at his eyes.

“That is not the way,” Zephyr says quietly. “Mandalorians don’t betray family…or betray the Tribe…”

“No, it is not,” Armorer says, her tone growing gentler. “Zephyr, please return to the nursery. You are not yet thirteen, it is not - ”

While she speaks, Zephyr reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little pocketknife. He looks up at the hammer. Paz lunges forward and wrestles the knife out of his hand. Zephyr gives him a furious look before breaking down into tears, great sobs wracking his entire body.

“Zephyr,” Paz says gruffly, gently. “Let’s go back to the nursery.”

Pure rage fills him. No child should ever feel this way, to feel like they have to _exile_ their own parent. He should have never been put into this position. For the first time throughout this entire process, Paz finds himself hating Liam.

“He lied to me,” Zephyr cries. “ _Buir_ lied to me.”

He breaks down into great, shuddering sobs, his entire body shaking. Numbly, Paz folds the little knife up and puts it into his pocket.

“He lied, he promised – he betrayed the Tribe - “

“Shh,” Paz soothes. “It’s going to be alright, Zephyr.”

The child continues sobbing for several minutes as Paz tries to calm him down. Some of the other adults come forward, but Paz waves them off. He has always been good with the little ones. He strokes the boy’s back, murmuring soothing things to him, until his sobs turn into whimpers and sniffles.

“D-did you vote to make _buir_ leave?” Zephyr mumbles into his shoulder.

Paz can answer this question somewhat honestly. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. Each word takes physical effort to get out while he tries to come up with a reasonable explanation.

“No,” Paz says. “I cannot vote, Zephyr. My emotions would cloud my judgment. It is irresponsible to make impulsive decisions. That’s why I stopped you. Do you understand why?”

“Yeah,” Zephyr says, sniffling. “I-I was a-angry, I s-shouldn’t make de-decisions from-from a place of-of anger.”

“Let’s go to the nursery,” Paz says, offering the boy his hand. “I’ll get you some hot tea, alright?”

Armorer stands up. He exhales when he sees her dagger in hand. He gets to his feet and picks Zephyr up. The boy curls around him, resting his head on his shoulder, soft sobs escaping him. The child is _way_ too big to be carried like this, but he knows the child will need comfort once Armorer casts her vote.

[end flashback]

-

-

-

Paz grunts under the weight of the child. Ymar laughs as he clings to his chest plate like an oversized pyjakk, his hands curled over the top of his chest plate and both bare feet against his cuisse. He wraps his arm around Ymar to keep him from falling backwards.

“PAZ PILE!” he shouts.

 _Shit_.

That is all it takes for every child in hearing range to come running. One by one, the children launch themselves at him, shouting for him to surrender. He can’t help but to grin under his bucket as he lumbers around, children hanging off his person. No matter how old he gets, he never gets tired of playing with them. He scoops Ymar under one arm, growling playfully.

“I will never surrender,” he says, as he tickles Ymar. “Take this, evil fiend!”

“Ahh!” Ymar screams dramatically through his laughter, “I’ve been hit, I’ve been hit!”

“I’ll save you!” Ellyn shouts.

“MEDIC!”

Paz grunts as Ellyn leaps onto him from the couch. He grunts as her knee hits him precisely in the side where his armor does not cover. Either these kids are bigger than they used to be, or he really is getting old. He catches her with one hand as she starts slapping at his chest plate. After a few minutes of wrestling with the slippery little eels, he decides to give in – they’re not going to give up until he does. He heads toward the couch. If he is going to be bested in combat, he wants to be comfortable.

He starts to sit down. Ola screams dramatically and scrambles out of his way. Once the way is clear, he flops down with a heavy thud, making the couch groan under his weight.

“Oh no,” he says as dramatically as possible, “I have been bested in combat. Whatever shall I do?”

Ymar crawls into his lap. He starts patting his chest plate. Ola scrambles up next to him. Her hair is a messy mop of blonde curls. Paz reaches up to pluck a twig out of her hair and flicks it away.

“Uhm, as part of you losing,” she manages to get out, “We demand...rep…repar…uh…payment.”

“Reparations,” Paz says, wondering where she had heard the word.

"Yeah, whatever," Ola says. "We want payment!"

Brat.

“It seems I have no choice but to comply. What do you demand, fearless conquerors?”

“We want candy!” Ymar demands.

“Sorry, kids,” Paz says. “I ran out last week.”

A chorus of disappointed ‘awws’ goes up from the children. Paz shrugs as they clamber off him to go continue playing their game. He stays where he is to supervise the little hellions, occasionally stepping in when they get too rowdy for his tastes. When the evening bell chimes, he finds himself relieved. Getting up, he ushers them toward the doorway.

“Go wash your hands and faces,” he says. “And if you’re not wearing your shoes, go find them.”

“Yes, sir!” Ymar says, as the horde thunders off.

Paz exhales. Thank the stars for some silence.

“Uncle Paz!” comes Ola’s cry.

He looks up. Ola is laying on _top of_ the air conditioning duct, well out of what a child her age should be able to reach.

“How the fuck did you get up there?” he can’t help but to blurt out.

“ _Buir_ said we’re not supposed to use those words until we’re thirteen!” Ola giggles out.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m much older than thirteen,” Paz responds. “C’mere, pyjakk.”

He holds his arms out. Ola rolls off the vent and into his waiting arms. He rights her and places her onto the ground. He shoos her off to her parents. He will have to eventually figure out how she got up there, but he does not want to deal with that right now. When he takes his spot on the couch, he spreads out on the cushions, taking up as much space as his tired body demands. He hears soft footsteps and turns his camera on, keeping his breathing even and measured. Din is approaching him, his hands behind his back. His brother comes to a halt next to his knee and stands there, watching him intently.

“PAZ PILE!”

“ _DIN_ –!”

Din ignores him and drops down onto him with a mighty _clang_. Paz shoves Din off him, snarling at him in annoyance. His brother _howls_ with laughter, even as he goes flying back onto the cushions. Paz cannot believe his brother – nearing forty years of age – is still capable of acting so childishly.

“You know that will never end, right?” Din asks, as he sits up. “Oh, I call it now, Paz – in fifty years, you’ll be propped up next to the heater, with a bowl of milk and bread to gum on, and the kids are still going to Paz Pile you."

“I can only hope to earn that privilege,” Paz responds, as Din takes a seat next to him.

They fall into a companionable silence, each of them lost in their thoughts. After a few minutes, Din turns his head in his direction.

“So, have you decided on what you’re going to do?”

“No,” Paz admits.

“Well, you’d better hurry up,” Din says. “I think Armorer is finished planning the bonfire celebration…and at least four naming ceremonies.”

He almost groans in response.

“You make her wait any longer and she’ll start knitting chainmail presentation gowns,” Din says, slapping his shoulder.

“Please don’t,” Paz says in exasperation.

“As soon as Hannah and the other old bats find out, they’re going to be on your ass like it’s made of _uj’ayali_ ,” Din continues.

“ _This_ is why we swap our vows in private,” Paz mutters.

Din laughs.

“Don’t worry about it,” Din says. “Keep it simple. One date to see if she wants you. Nothing fancy.”

_Keep it simple._

Paz considers the possibilities.

Despite your dedication to improvement, you are still a terrible sparring partner. Between the right people, sparring can finish between the sheets. He does not want you to think that he expects sex from you. Despite straying from the path after his breakup with Zeli, Paz wants to do this the right way. He wants you to know that if you marry him, he is yours, without reservation. The rest of his life will be spent by your side, no matter how short it may be.

He considers other possibilities. Dating for Mandalorians can be quite limited due to the lifestyle. You are the lightest of lightweights, so he is not going to take you into town to visit the bar. You also have terrible motion sickness, so no jet pack flights together. And honestly, he does not want to risk repeating the _last_ time someone had taken you up to practice. It still haunts him to this day.

With most of his options struck off the list, he chooses to ask you to go shooting with him. It is safe. You know how to handle your firearms well.

_Neither one of us can fuck this up too badly, I’m sure of that._

“Do you think she’d like to go shooting?” Paz asks.

“Yeah, that seems pretty safe,” Din says. “You’re Range Master, you can’t fuck it up too badly.”

Paz laughs. Din knows him far too well. At least with this date, he will get to spend some time alone with you. And even if things do not work out between the two of you, he will at least get to teach you some of the finer points of shooting.

Paz cannot see any downsides to this arrangement.

-

-

-

The morning of his attempt to ask you out, Paz polishes his armor until it shines. Then in a fit of uncharacteristic vanity, he uses a bit of boot polish to darken the scars in the metal to make them slightly more noticeable. Then he shaves, applies some of that scented skin toner shit that Terys keeps in the locker room for his special ‘dates’, and armors up. Relief and confidence fill him at the familiar, comforting weight on his frame.

He heads to the workshop and takes a moment to scope the field from the doorway.

Immediately, he notices you sitting on your rickety stool in the corner of the workshop, your body hunched over your datapad as you study some drawing or another. Terys and Revala are by the shelves of raw materials, discussing their recent hunt.

Four more _vod_ \- including Doctor Shen - are clustered around Revala’s ship. Garan, one of their general mechanics, shrieks something foul in frustration and kicks a massive dent into the front panel. The other three watch in silence as he storms off.

Well, looks like Revala’s ship isn’t going to be fixed today.

Paz takes a deep breath and steps into the workshop.

 _Act natural,_ he thinks to himself, _you’re here to see Shu’shika._

He tilts his head at Revala and Terys as they acknowledge his presence. Paz continues checking out his surroundings, looking for threats, as is habit for him. He notices a generator on a hovercart near the stairs. Paz makes a note to move the trailing end of the cable. Finally, he comes up behind you and takes a moment to appreciate you. Even though you lack the armor a hunter typically wears, he thinks what you do have suits your needs. He swallows nervously.

 _This is really happening. I’m putting myself out there_.

Before he can start doubting himself, he speaks.

“Hey,” he says, in what he hopes is a confident, but nonchalant tone.

 _Hey? HEY? Fuck, Vizla, come up with better material_ , he groans internally.

You look up and he is pleased when you sit up straight, giving him your full attention. Your posture looks like you are happy to see him.

“Hey Paz,” you respond. “What can I do for you?”

He loses his confidence when he glances down at your datapad and sees the recent call log. You had been talking to Lyras just moments ago. Lyras is more than just a fellow hunter – he is a direct competitor for your attention. Paz hardens his resolve. They might be equally matched, but Paz knows he can offer more to you than the other man could dream of.

“I’m here for personal reasons, not work,” he says.

He has to swallow as he watches you. You go from attentive to…shy? He wonders if he is interpreting your body language correctly – your shoulders slouch a bit, and you don’t quite tilt your head in his direction.

“Wh-what brings you here?”

“I just wanted to see what you thought about going shooting?” Paz asks as casually as possible. Lowering his voice to ward off any eavesdroppers, he continues, “Just the two of us?”

_Did my fucking voice just crack? Fucking hell, get it together, Vizla._

The brief moment between the end of his question and your response feels like an eternity, the silence nearly drowning out your little inhalation. You tilt your head back to look at him.

“I would like that very much,” you say, dropping your stylus. “When?”

“When are you free?” he asks casually, leaning against the table.

Your stool wobbles as you sit up straight. He considers how dangerous it is to give someone as clumsy as you a wobbly stool, but your voice distracts him from his thoughts.

“Honestly, I’d like to skip the rest of today,” you say, your helmet not quite tilted in his direction. “Do you think that would be okay? To skip work? This would count as training, right?”

He was right – that little slouch of your shoulders and you tilting your gaze away – it _is_ shyness. He suddenly feels very pleased with himself to elicit that reaction from you.

“Yeah,” Paz responds, clearing his throat as he suppresses the happiness in his voice. “To both. Whenever you’re ready, I can meet you downstairs.”

“Let me wrap up here and I’ll see you,” you say. Your datapad buzzes. “Ugh. Lyras _again_.”

“You know, you could always decline his call and let him leave a message,” Paz suggests mischievously.

You laugh.

_I could listen to that every single day for the rest of my life._

“You are a bad influence, Paz Vizla,” you say, poking his bracer.

You make to stand, but the wobbly stool finally gives out. It tilts to the side as one of the legs snaps out of place. In slow motion, Paz watches as your body plummets to the ground. He lunges, but he’s too late, and you hit the ground with a little noise. His stomach drops to his feet as he kneels next to you.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks urgently.

“Ugh, how embarrassing,” you say. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me – “

“Stay there, don’t move,” he says. “I’ll go get Doctor Shen.”

“Paz,” you start to say, but he turns on his heel and jogs toward the bay.

In his haste, he forgets about the power cable trailing after the generator. It catches around his ankle at the top of the stairs. For a single heart-stopping moment, he just kind of hangs there in midair, considering just how badly this is going to hurt when he finally lands.

It happens in slow motion, like when he had watched you fall, but this was even slower, and he can _feel_ the horrified looks on him. Paz clatters down the stairs as the cable wraps around his ankle, taking the generator and hovercart with him, and finally tips forward at the foot of the stairs. He grunts as he lands face first on the ground, his flailing arms doing little to break his fall.

Mother _fucker_.

Stars explode behind his eyes, his nose making a sickening crunch as his face impacts the inside of his helmet. Paz only has a moment before he hears the hovercart clattering down the stairs after him. He rolls out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed, but his mortification does not end there.

The cart somehow manages to activate itself and goes hurtling off toward Terys’s bike, dragging _him_ with it in some sort of sick twist of cosmic fate. The two people working on the bike leap out of the way as the hovercart slams directly into the machinery and knocks it over. Paz sits up and manages to untangle himself. Then, he leaps to his feet, hoping to turn the hovercart off before anything else is damaged.

That turns out to be a very bad decision. As he stands, the blood rushes from his head, leaving it feeling empty and heavy at the same time. His vision swims at the edges and the ground heaves under his feet. Paz collapses as his knees refuse to support his weight any longer. Fortunately, this time he avoids smashing his face again. More blood gushes out of his nose and soaks into his beard.

_Fuck. Feels like a concussion._

This time, he stays down as the world starts to go spotty and dark at the edges. His entire head throbs painfully as blood starts to pool against the inside of his visor. Paz feels hands turn him over and he peers up at Terys and you. You press your hand to his shoulder. Your posture radiates horror, so he tries to make you feel better.

“Hey,” he says. “Been seeing a lot of you today.”

Terys only sighs. You, on the other hand, let out a noise he cannot interpret. It might be a laugh, or an exasperated groan.

 _Ah, shit_ , he thinks, _better not make her worry._

“Are you okay?” you ask, leaning closer.

He thinks for a moment that you might kiss him, but you draw back, leaving him disappointed. Then again, he couldn't quite think right now.

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Just. Uh. Might have broken my nose.”

“Doctor Shen will have you patched up in no time, Paz.”

“S’fine,” he slurs. “Gotta ask – you okay, though? You did fall pretty hard.”

“You just tried to _kov’nynir_ your way through solid concrete, Paz. And you want to know if _I’m_ okay?”

“Well, yeah. S’part of being… _alor’ad_. Look after everyone.”

You sigh and shake your head.

“Paz, I’m fine. Just a bruised ego,” you say. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He stares up at you. Paz knows that you don’t have a sister, so the other person to your left must be him seeing double. Either way, his upper level processes know that this is a bad sign.

“The you on the left, or the you on the right?” he slurs, trying to use his fingers to count. “Three? Three…four…uh, so six, total?”

“Okay, you definitely need to go to medical,” you say, reaching across him to catch his hand in yours. Gently, you guide it down to his chest and squeeze his fingers comfortingly. Paz feels his entire body heat up how your tiny hand fits around his.

“Terys, where is Doctor Shen? She was just here.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I will be fine. I have done worse…while drinking.”

The pain in his head just keeps building, but he doesn’t want to worry you. He tries to pat your knee and misses. Instead, he grabs your thigh and earns himself a little squeak.

_A very cute squeak._

“Who knew I’d fall this quickly?” he blurts out.

“Uh… _what_?” you ask.

Terys disguises his snort with a cough and quickly looks away as you look at him.

“ _Really_ , Vizla?” he asks, his voice warbling with suppressed laughter.

“I fell down the stairs,” Paz tries to explain his stupid joke.

“Mm-hmm,” Terys hums knowingly in response.

 _Fuck_.

Fortunately, Doctor Shen arrives to save him from the mortification of responding to Terys. She takes one look at the situation and calls for assistance. The tribe doesn’t have a bed to transport him, so Terys and Hal are called to come assist. Regretfully, that means that he has to let go of your hand. The two men scoop him up and onto his feet. The horrible pressure behind his eyes and nose grows worse and more blood starts to trickle out from his busted nose. Paz is so dizzy that he is helpless to do anything but put one foot in front of the other.

_Well, at least Shu’shika agreed to the date. It only cost me my dignity._

Doctor Shen guides him onto the bed. He takes everything but the bucket off, insisting they discuss it with Armorer before anything else. Doctor Shen scans over him, aiming the scanner up under his bucket the best she can. She says something to him, but he is so out of it he can only grunt in response.

After a few less-than-tender jabs from her hypospray, Paz starts to feel a little bit more lucid. Doctor Shen goes off to find Armorer. Din hurtles into medical as soon as he is cleared to enter. He sits down next to him. Paz looks at him.

“How?” Din demands, gesturing at his bloodstained cowl. “ _How_?”

Paz shrugs.

“Did she say yes, at least?” Din grumbles.

“Yes,” Paz says, a bit too giddily. “She said yes.”

Din sighs and lets his head drop back against the wall.

“Maker, help you both,” Din sighs. “Maker, help _us_.”

Paz hums and rests his head on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. From here, he can hear Armorer and Doctor Shen arguing down the hallway. He has always wanted to see the two of them argue. At least his stay will be more entertaining now. As he rests, Paz wishes you were here, just so he can hold your hand for a little longer.


	4. fire and smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how a family rallies behind their own and a moment of peace and quiet at home
> 
> [alternatively: mandalorian slice of life, complete with uj'ayali]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are non-gory descriptions of an injury and its treatment.

[flashback]

Paz returns to the _karyai_. Zephyr is with Norj in the nursery, safely shielded from the shit-show that is about to happen. Three minutes after his return, Armorer strides back into the room amidst pure silence. Mere seconds later, Zeli and Liam slink into the _karyai_ , buckets firmly back in place. Neither even dares to look up as they come stand in front of the table where Armorer is standing. She stares at them for several moments. The silence drags on, his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

“You broke your Oath. Why?” Armorer asks, in a tone that some might regard as casual.

Paz knows better than that. Armorer is livid. She has probably gone from incandescent rage to calm and back several times. They take too long to respond, and she finally loses her temper.

“Why?” Armorer barks sharply at them.

“I have no explanation,” Zeli says, her voice wavering slightly.

“I have no explanation,” Liam says hoarsely.

Like a cold autumn breeze rasping leaves across the ground, whispers erupt through the crowd, and sends a wave of prickles down his flesh.

“The Tribe cannot come to a decision regarding your punishment,” Armorer says, her voice like ice. “Twelve votes for marriage, twelve votes for exile.”

The two of them exchange a look between themselves. He knows what they are thinking: there are twenty-eight adults in the Tribe; since the _Alor_ usually abstains from these votes, the stalemate should have been broken.

“One individual abstained from the vote,” Armorer says, her tone calm and cold. “Thus, the decision falls to me.”

She withdraws her own dagger. Though beautifully ornate, it is honed to a lethal edge. It has taken many lives over the years. It is only fitting that it decides their final fate with the tribe. She does not hesitate to drive the blade under the tongs. _Marriage_. It shocks him to his core. Of all the people here, he thought she would vote for exile. She withdraws, her entire body tense. No one dares to argue, though he can hear angry mutterings.

“You will marry,” Armorer says flatly.

“What about – “ Zeli starts to say.

Zeli dares to look at _him_. Paz tightens his jaw, biting into the sides of his cheeks to avoid the caustic response. Here, right now, he feels no sorrow. Only anger. Pure unadulterated rage. While he simmers, Din _growls_. She quickly looks back down.

“What about Zephyr?” Liam _finally_ asks.

How could a _buir_ even hesitate to ask about their child’s wellbeing? Paz is beyond disgusted with Liam.

“What about Zephyr?” Armorer repeats, enunciating each word carefully. “Did you think to ask yourself that before you bared your face to Zeli?”

“Did Paz see our faces?” Liam asks.

“No,” he responds. “I did not look.”

“Then why take our helmets?” Zeli asks quietly. “I would have thought you would want us gone…”

Paz does not look at either of them.

“My Oath to this Tribe comes before anything else. If I had not acted – if I had walked away, pretending I had not seen what I saw, I would be complicit in this blatant disregard for the Oath we all swore,” Paz says, every word carefully modulated to remain as neutral as possible. “I did what I could to ensure the best possible outcome for Zephyr, which is more than I can say for either of you.”

More muttering, though it is a lot quieter than before. To drive the knife in deeper, he continues. He cannot help himself.

“Regardless of what has been done to me, I am no liar. I still have my honor and my integrity.”

This time, everyone remains silent.

“Do you wish to exchange vows?” Armorer asks, her voice silky soft.

“We…we will exchange them,” Liam says.

His voice is hoarse. Pained. Paz feels his lip curl in disgust. The two adulterers turn to one another. Quietly, they exchange their vows. With each word, Paz feels his stomach tighten to the point of pain. He wants to throw up, but he forces himself to witness their farce of a marriage.

 _This_ is not how it is meant to be. The _riduurok_ – the marriage bond – is formed from _love_. To a Mandalorian, especially one as conservative as him, marriage is an oath of loyalty, fidelity, and unconditional support.

Marriage comes from a love that is formed from mutual admiration and acceptance; from whole-hearted, joyful surrender to ones’ other half. It comes from the type of respect that grows deep, strong roots. It culminates with two people joining their lives as one, from the moment the vows are spoken until the day they go marching far, far away.

Marriage is not the love that is formed from passion, lust, and _deceit._ When the heat leaves, and the nights grow cold, their roots will dry and weaken. They will not grow together and become one. There will only be rot stagnation until there is only distance and bitter resentment. He can only pray that Zephyr does not suffer further.

When they finish exchanging their vows, Armorer sighs and retrieves her dagger. One by one, the others follow suit. No one looks at them. Paz turns to exit. He will not be able to make them suffer the way he wants, but at least he can make them hurt a little. He can make them know how much he despises them for what they have done. Before he leaves, he pauses next to the newlyweds.

“My congratulations to the newlyweds. It is my greatest hope that the two of you will find peace and prosperity together,” he says calmly, coolly. “My gift to you.”

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws the ceremonial blade he had hoped to give her one day. Then he flicks it down onto the table, embedding the tip into the table before Zeli. She lets out a choked sob. Liam exhales and looks away.

“Paz,” Zeli starts to say.

“Please, _ner vod_ ,” Liam tries to say. “I am so sorry – “

“Do not _ever_ address me by name again, _demagolka_ ,” he hisses at them, finally unable to keep his temper under control. “You are _dead_ to me.” 

He turns around before either of them can speak to them. From there, Paz heads back to his room. He hesitates at the door for just a moment. Then he exhales. The sooner he gets this done, the easier it will be. Entering, he finds Din already in the process of cleaning out Zeli’s property, tossing everything carelessly into a crate. He pokes through whatever Din has already packed to make sure nothing of his accidentally ends up in there. Paz unfolds another crate and starts going through the main room, listening as Din occasionally mutters an expletive or insult.

He finds several things that had once been at home with his – her second pair of boots, a bright pink sock, and a book. All of it goes straight into the crate. Piece by piece, he removes her from his life, each article erasing part of their eight years together. Like all other wounds, this pain will eventually heal, but he will not be the same as he was before. He can only hope that his new course in life will allow him to become a better man.

From here, he watches Din strip the bedding off the mattress. He balls it up and dumps it in the bottom of another crate. Paz turns away as Din flips the mattress over. Paz has never been one to get emotional about objects, but he cannot sleep there. He will replace it eventually, but it will do for now. A firm knock at the door makes his shoulders tense. He hadn’t the foresight to tell them to stay away, that their belongings would be left at their door.

Din is at the door before he can respond.

“What?” he asks.

A gloved hand pushes a basket into his arms.

“Take care of _alor’ad_ ,” Neten says. “He’s the only one…who can kick our asses the right way, you know?”

“Thanks,” Din says gruffly. “I’ll let him know.”

He shuts the door. Before Din can put the basket down, there is another knock. This time, it is more insistent. Din opens the door again.

“Hey, Reva - what the _fuck_ – “

“Damn it, Djarin,” comes Revala’s voice. “Grab the other end, would you?”

“Let me put this down,” Din says indignantly.

Paz watches as Revala and Terys push a mattress into the room, brand new and still wrapped. He blinks a few times in utter confusion.

“Uhm…where did this come from?” Din asks, as he backs into the room, holding his end steady.

“Eh, Terys just had a spare one laying around,” Revala says briskly. “Thought the old man could use better support for his back.”

“Yeah, we got sick of hearing him bitch about it,” Terys says. “Every other fucking day. My back this, my back that.”

The other man drops a linen bag onto the couch.

“We’ll just help tidy up,” Terys says, going straight to the bedroom.

Paz watches in silence as the two of them swiftly push the old mattress toward the door.

“Don’t want to hear you bitching about your back, okay?” Revala asks, her voice choking up.

Suddenly, Paz realizes that Terys and Revala had been planning on moving in together. That they had bought the mattress for themselves. He did not even suspect they had been in a relationship, much less being at the point of moving in together. Sudden guilt wracks him.

“Yeah,” Paz says. “I won’t. How much – “

“If you even _think_ about trying to pay me back, I will stab you in the _kriffing_ balls,” Terys says flatly.

“You just want any excuse to touch his balls, don’t you?” Revala asks in a saucy tone.

“Oh, fuck off,” Terys snaps.

Paz holds both hands up in surrender. The two of them disappear, bickering between themselves. Paz helps Din set the bed up on the makeshift frame. It hangs over the edges a bit, but it will do until he can replace the frame. Din unpacks the sheets and snorts.

Paz stares at the monstrosity Din has lifted out of the bag. The sheets are a violent shade of pink with fluorescent green stripes. As if the eye-watering combination is not bad enough on its own, whoever had designed the pattern also included lines of tiny black taun-tauns running parallel to the stripes.

“Holy hell,” Din breathes. “That man has no taste.”

Paz hears the grin on Din’s face, and he can’t help himself. From losing two people he once loved all the way to his Tribe rallying behind him to support him through the clusterfuck his life has suddenly become…today has been a bizarre, surreal ride of emotions. He can only laugh. Hard. Din chortles a bit, though he is clearly worried about him.

“I’m keeping them,” Paz announces.

“You’re insane,” Din retorts.

“They’re great,” Paz shoots back as they get the bedding back in place. “They add…uh…character.”

Nothing in the bag matches. One pillowcase is fluorescent orange, while the other is black. The flat sheet looks like someone spilled a child’s watercolor palette onto a dirty tissue. It might have been bleached by accident at some point, but he cannot tell. At least the thick blanket is a relatively normal shade of brown, despite being made of cheap velour-like fabric.

“They certainly add something,” Din says, as they take a step back to survey the horror scene laid out in front of them, “But I’m not sure it can be called character.”

Paz nods, suddenly sober.

“Hey…thanks,” Paz says to Din.

Din responds by grabbing him by the chest plate and headbutting him hard enough to make his teeth rattle in his skull.

“If you need anything, send me a message,” Din says.

Cheekily, he reaches into the basket Neten had brought by. He grabs a beer and a handful of the snacks. Then, with a jaunty salute, Din leaves. After locking the door, Paz goes to the basket and takes out the alcohol. He pops the cap and takes a big swallow. He grimaces. Far too bitter, no flavor. He drinks it anyway.

Turning to the bottle is an unhealthy coping mechanism that has claimed a number of his brethren, but he has no plans to make it a habit. Tonight, he just wants to be numb.

[end flashback]

* * *

“My fayshe feels funny,” Paz says to Din, who sighs.

“Doctor Shen, Paz is starting to slur his words,” he calls out through the door.

No one responds.

Paz tilts his head to the doorway as Doctor Shen and Armorer argue in the main room. Well, it really is not an argument. The two of them are just repeating themselves over and over in different ways, trying to tell the other what needs to happen. Armorer says the bucket does not come off due to the Oath. Doctor Shen says that the bucket comes off. The two of them have been going around in circles for a while now, long enough such that the pain medications were starting to lose their edge. It is not until Doctor Shen brings up the fact that traumatic brain injury can render him completely useless to the Tribe that Armorer relents.

“Then we blindfold you,” Armorer says.

“How the _fuck_ do you expect me to treat him with a blindfold on?” Doctor Shen asks in exasperation.

“That is the only way,” Armorer says.

“Can I use the deep tissue scanner?” Doctor Shen asks bluntly. “I technically won’t be looking at his face – just the bones and tissue underneath the skin.”

Armorer falters.

“Can you assure us that you will not know his identity?”

“Yes,” Doctor Shen stresses.

“Very well, do what you must to ensure Paz’s health _and_ preserve his identity,” Armorer says.

“We are going to discuss this oath with the rest of the Tribe, Armorer,” Doctor Shen says flatly. “There _must_ be an exclusion for medical professionals.”

“Doctor Shen – “

“ _Armorer,”_ Doctor Shen hisses through her teeth.

“I will leave you to your work, Doctor.”

Paz snickers as Armorer gracefully concedes defeat. It has been such a long time since he has last witnessed Armorer backing down from a fight. Then again, there is an unspoken rule – the chief medical officer outranks even the _Alor_ when it involves someone’s health.

Coming into the room, Doctor Shen wheels the bed over to the deep tissue scanner. She positions the arm of the machine over his head. Then Din takes over, draping a sheet over everything to keep him from being seen. Once it is set to the deep scan mode, he removes his bucket. He grimaces as the bright light stabs straight through his pupils and into the back of his head.

“First of all, how many times have you gotten your nose broken?”

“Lost count,” he remarks.

“Fuck’s sakes. _Hunters_ ,” Doctor Shen hisses. “Stay still. You’re going to feel a bit of a tickling sensation in your teeth. I’m trying to set the bone fragments without causing further damage.”

Searing pain jolts down the side of his face. Paz gasps.

“Only a sadist would call that a tickle,” he groans.

“Din, jab this into his neck, right into the jugular.”

“What is it?” Din asks.

“Painkillers,” Doctor Shen says. “Now go do it before I take it back.”

“Aye, Doctor,” Din says. “I’m gonna stab you, okay?”

“How long have you been wanting to do that?” Paz asks.

“ _Stop moving_ ,” Doctor Shen growls.

Din laughs as he jabs him in the neck. After a few seconds, Paz feels his head swim.

“N-now that…that’s the good shit,” he slurs out. “C-can’t f-feel my _face_.”

“That particular cocktail contains a bacta infusion as well as anti-inflammatory drugs that are targeted specifically to brain tissue. There’s also a mild muscle relaxer in there for your neck muscles. So, hopefully, that’ll keep you still.”

Paz relaxes, nearly falling asleep as Doctor Shen works to reposition the bone fragments in his face through the equipment. Once his nose is put back together, she gives him another injection to stimulate the bone cells and help support the bacta infusion. She reaches under the blanket, wearing latex gloves.

“Alright, I have to do this part by touch, since I can’t look at your face,” she says. “Stay. Still. I don’t want this falling into your mouth or your eyes.”

With one hand resting on his cheek, Doctor Shen’s other hand disappears. Then it returns with a strip of quick-set stabilizing bandage. She quickly maneuvers it into place. It heats up uncomfortably as it dries.

“That will keep the bridge of your nose in the right shape,” she says. “You can wear the bucket, but please be careful putting it on and taking it off for the next few days.”

“Sure thing, doc,” he says.

Din returns to his side and slides his bucket under the sheets.

“Hey, you cleaned it out,” Paz says. “Thanks, _ner vod_.”

“Your neck is fine, no damage to any of the nerves, muscles, or vessels,” she says. “But those muscles are going to hurt if you agitate them again before the bacta can do its job. I don’t want you doing _anything_ stupid, Vizla.”

“I won’t do anything stupid,” he insists.

“You’re a hunter,” she retorts sharply.

“Point taken,” Paz says. “Nothing more vigorous than light sparring, then?”

“No sparring at all,” she says. “You can lift weights and jog for the next week. No sparring until I’ve had a chance to check your muscles again.”

“Can I go shooting?”

“Handheld blasters only, nothing heavier than a child,” she says.

“Fine,” he says. “Light shooting.”

“Alright, I’m happy with where you are right now health-wise,” Doctor Shen starts to say.

“Does…does this mean I can leave today?” Paz asks as he carefully puts his bucket back on.

Then he reaches out blindly, trying to remove the sheet from his face. Doctor Shen takes the sheets away, tossing them at Din. The unspoken command is clear to them both. Din goes and puts the sheets into the bin to be washed and sterilized.

“Absolutely not,” Doctor Shen says in an exasperated tone. “You have a _concussion_ , Paz. We take brain injuries _seriously_ around here. Your ass is staying in that bed overnight. In the morning, I’ll decide if you can leave.”

“Doctor Shen, please,” Paz says. “I have something very important that I need to do.”

“No. Your only job right now is to heal.”

“Please? It’s extremely important,” Paz insists.

“What is _so_ important that you want to risk further brain damage?”

“Well…I have a date,” Paz says. “So, surely, you understand – “

Her head shoots up.

“Oh, no,” Doctor Shen says. “You are staying in bed and you are cancelling your plans.”

“But – “

She turns around slowly. Paz swallows as the inky black visor of her helmet tilts down toward him.

“Alright, I’m cancelling my plans,” he says. “No problem at all.”

“Good,” she says, pacing closer to his bed, looming over him. “I would _hate_ to have to pull rank on you.”

Paz grimaces to himself under the bucket. The last thing he wants to do is piss off Doctor Shen. He knows she will make him stay another night if he mouths off. So, wisely, he stays where he is, hoping to be put out of his misery soon.

Din sends a message, informing him that he will be getting him some clean clothes. Paz sighs and closes his eyes. Doctor Shen allowed him to wipe some of the blood off with wipes, but everything from the chin down is saturated in blood. Once she can confirm the bacta is working and that the pain medications have not caused any adverse reactions, she will let him have a proper shower.

* * *

When you see Din come out of medical, you approach.

“How is he?” you ask, trying to keep the worry from your voice.

“Concussed,” Din sighs. “Idiot broke his nose, but he’ll be fine once the bacta kicks in.”

You nod. A broken nose and concussion aren’t too bad.

“Does he need anything?” you ask.

“Nah, he’ll be – “

Din suddenly stops talking as he tilts his head. Then slowly, he turns his head to look at you. You wait, hoping there’s something you can do.

“You know what, I think he might need a clean set of clothes,” Din says, in an odd tone. “But I need to take care of some stuff. Can you grab him something to change into?”

You jump at the chance to help Paz.

“Absolutely,” you say. “Did Doctor Shen specify visiting hours, or - ?”

“He’s going to have a checkup in two hours,” Din says. “Take stuff to him then. He’ll appreciate whatever you bring him.”

“Okay,” you say. “I can handle that.”

Din nods. A few minutes later, a message from Din pops up in your HUD, containing Paz’s door code. Immediately, you return to your room and grab one of your larger storage bags. Chewing on your lower lip, you consider what he might need for an overnight stay in medical. Pajamas, clean clothes for tomorrow, and toiletries. A small smile crosses your face – he will need his snacks, too. Warmth spreads across your cheeks as you stride down the hallway toward the officer’s quarters.

Paz always enjoys eating whatever you cook, even when it means he sneaks something off behind your back. You have long since started making extra so he can have some as well. He is also considerate and polite, a far cry from some of the coarser company available in the Tribe. You decide that you will be as considerate with him as he is with you.

Once at his door, you type in the code and let yourself in. His room is _huge_ , you think enviously to yourself, as you look around. He also seems to have half the armory stacked on tables and in bins around his room. Along wall, he has a large table with neatly organized tools and a few partially assembled blasters.

Turning toward the bedroom, you hesitate. This is _his_ bedroom, his personal space. You almost feel like you are trespassing here. Taking a deep breath, you shake your head, and move forward. Din gave you his code. If he didn’t trust you, he would not have given you access to Paz’s private space. You step in and head toward the shelves opposite the end of the bed. There, you find his clothes. Tonight, he will need pajamas, so you grab one of the soft-looking flannel sets. For tomorrow, you grab a suit, a set of padding, and a cowl in matching dark grey.

In one of the boxes on the lower shelves, you find compression shirts, shorts, and socks. Those are also added to the bag. Finally, you find his shower caddy and grab it as well. Once you are finished there, you leave the bedroom, and come into the living space. Stopping by the couch, you pick up the book on the table and add it to your bag. From there, you make your way through the _karyai_ and into the kitchen.

He will need something edible to keep his strength up. You’ve had hospital rations before and they are unpleasant, to say the least. No flavor, no spice, and no heat. Doctor Shen says that the rations are bland to ensure the patient can rest and heal, but you think she secretly enjoys the torture.

In the bottom of one of the bins, you find your cake supplies. You check the time. One hour and fifty-two minutes before you can see him and drop off supplies. Plenty of time to make him a small cake and get him some snacks. Exactly two hours and a minor burn later, you finish your gift to Paz. One small tray of _uj’ayali_ cake, made with your dwindling stock of spices, syrup, and wine. You wrap the entire thing in parchment paper and include a fork.

Then you go to the stasis unit in the corner and steal some of the cheeses, crackers, and a small container of pickles. There, something to tide him over. In one of the bins, you find some apples. You take two for him so Doctor Shen cannot complain about him eating too much cake.

You would not do this for _anyone else_. You love your Tribe, but Paz is special to you. Nervously, you stop that train of thought before it can even depart the station. Paz is your friend first and foremost.

Glancing around, you take in your mess. It is extensive. Well, that all can wait until later. Paz needs you more than anything needs to be cleaned up. You turn the lights off and make your way to medical, hefting the bag onto your shoulder. You wait patiently inside the main room, listening as Doctor Shen scolds Paz for something or another. When Doctor Shen steps outside of the private room, she does a blatant double-take.

“What can I do for you?” she asks.

“I’d like to see Paz,” you say. “Is it okay if I go in?”

Doctor Shen pokes her head into the private room.

“You okay with seeing more visitors, buckethead?”

“Depends,” comes Paz’s voice. “Who is it?”

“ _Shu’shika_ ,” Doctor Shen says.

“Sure,” Paz says. “Send her in.”

You step in, noting that Doctor Shen is watching you, her head cocked to one side. As soon as you come into the room, she follows you to the doorway, carrying a tray of equipment. Paz is resting on the bed, his legs crossed at the ankle, and his boots on the floor.

“Hey,” you say, echoing his words from earlier.

“Hey,” he repeats. “So, uh, what brings you here? What is all this, anyway?”

“Din said he has some really important stuff to work on, so I volunteered to get you some supplies,” you say to him. Digging into the bag, you grab his book and hand it to him. “Din sent the code for your door, by the way, I didn’t like break in or anything.”

Paz’s head jerks up at your words.

“Din…sent you the code?”

“Yes,” you say. “He was in such a rush to go finish his work. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he says, in an odd sort of tone. “I am so glad I cleaned up last night.”

You laugh as you hang the bag onto one of the wall hooks.

“I also came to see if you’re okay,” you say quietly, “And to see if you’d like some company?”

He nods in response.

“You want to stay and keep this cranky idiot company?” Doctor Shen asks, as she goes to the deep tissue scanner in the corner.

Paz growls as you sit down next to him.

“Well, of course,” you say. “Why wouldn’t I come see Paz?”

“I don’t mind,” Paz says. His voice takes a mischievous tone. “You did say you didn’t want to speak to Lyras. So now you don’t have to talk to him.”

You laugh, relief filling you. Then you clear your throat a bit.

“I…I also wanted to give you this,” you say, holding the tray to him.

He takes the tray from you, still slightly warm from the oven. He unwraps it and stares down at your offering to him.

“Uhm…my _buir_ always said to eat plenty of _uj’ayali_ if I was injured,” you say.

Inexplicably, you feel yourself blushing cherry-red, the heat filling you all the way down to your bellybutton.

“Where the hell did you find _uj’ayali_?” Doctor Shen asks.

“I-I made it,” you stammer out.

 _Oh, gods above, why did I even come here_?

“You made this for me?” Paz repeats, his tone so gentle that your breath catches in your throat.

You nod earnestly at Paz. Thankfully, he does not seem too weirded out by your forwardness. In fact, he might even sound a bit happy at it.

“You _made_ … _You_ made - ?” Doctor Shen asks.

You can feel her incredulous stare through her bucket.

“I have some of that wine that you like,” you admit softly. “I kept a few bottles…for a special occasion.”

“Thank you,” he says, his voice sounding almost awed. “I really appreciate it, _Shu’shika_.”

“I’ll go finish something else,” Doctor Shen says, backing toward the door. “Uh…somewhere else.”

She shuts the door, leaving the two of you alone. As much as you appreciate the doctor, you are grateful that she has work to do. You have not had a lot of time with Paz in the past few weeks, so you would like to make the most of your visit with him today.

“Would you like to try some?” you ask. “I can wheel the privacy curtain over, if you’d like. We can…we can hang out. Since we can’t go shooting.”

Hopefully, he will not think that you are being clingy.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’d like that.”

You beam at him. You have no idea why Doctor Shen would say he is cranky.

* * *

Doctor Shen finishes putting her equipment into the autoclave just as Din carefully peers into the room, edging in as if expecting to be attacked. She looks up at him. He _has_ to know about you and Paz. She goes to him.

“Did you know about Paz and _Shu’shika_?” she asks him in a low tone.

“Yes,” he says. “Are they - ?”

“Yeah,” Doctor Shen responds. “I’ll let her stay until I close down for the evening.”

Din nods just as they hear what seems to be a minor explosion down the hallway. Doctor Shen almost purses her lips as she hears Garan’s familiar bellowing. There is nothing new about this situation – some idiot hunter has rightfully earned their tongue-lashing from Garan. He takes _nothing_ from anyone, especially not hunters.

“What’s all the noise down the hallway for?”

“I don’t know,” Din says. “Maybe someone left the water on again?”

They listen for a few moments, the occasional shout drifting back to them. She turns back to Din.

“Is Paz serious?” she asks.

Doctor Shen knows you well – after all, she has been caring for you for years now. Even as a child, you tagged along after her, pestering her endlessly with your questions and tendency to injure yourself. She was there when you put your bucket on at thirteen. She watched you grow up to become a skilled, competent, and hard-working member of the tribe. It is everything that she could have wanted for you.

“Dead serious,” Din responds. “He’s been thinking about this for a while. He went to Armorer two nights ago to talk to her about courtship.”

Doctor Shen feels relief fill her stomach. If there is a hunter she trusts, it is Paz. He is a good man and will not take advantage of you. Doctor Shen knows that you are an adult, but she still sometimes sees the little girl you used to be, complete with a busted lip and two scabby knees.

“Good,” Doctor Shen says to him. “ _Shu’shika_ might be a walking disaster, but she is our most precious disaster.”

Someone taking an interest in you was bound to happen eventually. She cannot help but to be overjoyed that it is a hunter of Paz’s caliber. Before Din can respond, they hear Garan shout your name.

“Where is she?” Garan roars. “If she’s not already dying, I’m going to _kill her_ – “

Din grabs the surly mechanic by the chest plate and shoves him back out into the hallway.

“She’s busy,” Din says in his most menacing tone. “You will leave her alone.”

Undeterred, Garan shoves him back. This time, Din slams him up against the wall, pinning him in place with one arm against his chest plate and one finger pointed at his visor.

“I. Do. Not. Care,” Din hisses.

“This is the third time her carelessness has gotten something caught on fire,” Garan growls. “That little shit – “

“That little shit is busy,” Doctor Shen says from the doorway, her voice like ice. “Go back to the kitchen and take care of the mess. I’ll send her by _later_.”

Garan snarls but eventually concedes. Din grabs him by the shoulder and forcefully marches him away from medical. Doctor Shen goes to listen at the door. She hears only your combined laughter. Nodding to herself, she goes back to working on cleaning the equipment. 

* * *

Din makes sure to keep Garan going forward to avoid letting him interfere. It is rare that you and Paz can spend more than a few minutes alone, so he wants to ensure that the two of you have as long as possible to talk and get to know each other a little better.

“Why the fuck are you even involved?” Garan asks moodily.

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Din says. “Workshop, I assume?”

“Yes.”

He escorts Garan to the workshop, where they pick up the parts they will need to replace the melted circuitry and charred air vent. Din carries the bag without protest, even as Garan complains with every single step. In the _karyai_ , they find Dezha and Armorer at the kitchen window, watching as Terys finishes putting the flames out. Jalyn is by the backmost kitchen vent, trying to waft the smell of burnt wine and sugar out with a tea cloth. Din knows better – Jalyn is just here to snoop like the shameless little gossipmonger he is. Regardless, Din shoves Garan into the kitchen and bodily blocks the doorway.

“What is the problem?” Armorer asks, looking between the two of them.

“Just making sure Garan fixes everything in time for dinner,” Din says.

“Apparently, poor wittle _Shu’shika_ is so busy I can’t yell at her for her carelessness,” Garan snaps moodily in his direction as he starts unpacking the components onto the counter.

“Yes. She is busy,” Din confirms.

Terys puts the fire extinguisher into the cabinet. Then he looks across the counter. Din can see the wheels turning. A few seconds later, Terys looks up sharply, having come to the logical conclusion.

“Did she make her special _uj_ with wine syrup?” Terys asks slowly.

“She didn’t clean up after herself,” Garan interrupts as he shoves a pile of dirty dishes over. “And she didn’t even leave any for us. _Brat_.”

“Yes,” Din confirms. “Just for him.”

Garan continues grumbling as Armorer and Dezha look at each other. They come to the same conclusion.

“I will help you tidy up,” Dezha cuts in smoothly. “We can overlook this minor mistake.”

“Again?” Garan asks, turning to Dezha. “This is the third time, _Alor_. This has got to _stop_. We can’t afford to keep replacing everything her _kriffing_ hands touch.”

“I am aware of that,” Dezha says. “But we will overlook it this time. I’ll talk to her when she is finished.”

Din leads the cleanup effort by picking up the charred pot. He tosses it straight into the trash bin. He will have to buy a new pot before Hannah discovers one is missing. Din pauses. Then again…Hannah will overlook any mistake as long as she knows that Paz is trying to court _Shu’shika_. Din wonders if he can enlist their cook’s help in ensuring the process is as smooth and painless as possible for the rest of the Tribe.

Armorer starts sweeping the powder from the fire extinguisher into a neat pile on the floor, while Dezha works on wiping the counters down. Jalyn just keeps fanning the acrid air toward the vent. Judging by the wide grin on his face, he seems to have caught on already, though Din cannot fathom why he is still here. At long last, Garan seems to realize that something isn’t quite right. In the middle of replacing the filter, he pauses, and looks around, slowly taking stock of his present company. Everyone is quickly working to put the kitchen back in order in time for dinner.

“Why are you all here?” Garan asks slowly.

“Good question,” Hannah says, as she puts her apron on. “Why the hell are you crowding into my kitchen, anyway? And why do I smell smoke?”

“It was a minor incident,” Armorer says, cutting Garan off. “We are rectifying the problem.”

“Minor?” Hannah asks, picking up the charred remains of her pot out of the trash. “Did _Shu’shika_ set another pot on fire? Gods above, someone needs to have a serious talk with that girl.”

“That’s what I tried to do earlier,” Garan says, “But _nooo_ , Din said she was too busy to get a proper tongue-lashing for her _kriffing_ carelessness.”

Din looks at Hannah.

“ _Shu’shika_ is looking after Paz,” he says diplomatically.

Hannah blinks, turning to look at him.

“ _Shu’shika_ …and _Paz_?” she asks.

When Armorer nods, Garan drops his wrench onto the counter. It goes clattering onto the floor. Garan wordlessly stares at each of them in turn. The only sounds that can be heard are Jalyn’s snickers and the sound of the tea cloth he is flapping at the vent.

“You’re shitting me,” Garan says as he shakes his. “Oh, no. No, that is not happening. I absolutely forbid it.”

“And what authority would you have to interfere?” Armorer challenges immediately, coming forward a step, her hand falling to the hammer tucked into her belt.

Din cracks his knuckles threateningly, though he is certain that his muscle will not be needed here. Armorer is lethal with her hammer. Garan sinks down to a seated position on the counter and rests his face plate in his hands.

“We are not going to survive this,” Garan says in a defeated tone.

“That is an unfair over-exaggeration,” Armorer scolds. “They are good together, Garan.”

“Do we know when he intends to propose? He won’t make us – _her_ wait too long, will he?” Hannah asks nonchalantly, as she starts sorting through the ingredients for dinner.

No one is fooled by her tone. Everyone knows where her mind is – the bonfire feast. Hell, Din has found himself thinking about what he will bring back to celebrate their marriage. He has already purchased a scope for Paz and set aside a small piece of _bes’kar_ for you. Now, he needs to figure out what food he is bringing, but that can wait until later. He doesn’t expect the two of you to marry for at least six months, if not more.

“Paz managed to give himself a concussion before they could go on their first date,” Din says. “It isn’t happening for a few months at least.”

Hannah and Armorer both seem to sulk at his words.

“You know, it might not be so bad,” Terys says. “He’s a bit older, you know. He will look after her. Maybe get her trained up so she can actually start participating in hunts on the regular?”

“We can only hope,” Garan sighs dejectedly. “We can only hope.”

Jalyn puts the cloth down and picks up his cane. Carefully, he picks his way back to them. Din wonders what the little shit-stirrer is going to do next.

“Oooorr,” Jalyn says, somehow splitting a single-syllable word into three. “Imagine what it’s going to be like once he finally knocks her up. Can you imagine them having a few Vizla brats with his temperament and her propensity for accidental arson?”

Silence fills the kitchen. Garan lets out a low noise of distress. Armorer and Dezha exchange a look. Din thinks that any child that you and Paz name as your own will be perfect the way they are, even if they end up being prone to damaging their surroundings. Hell, under the right conditions, that could be a benefit in combat.

“Regardless of their unique personality traits,” Armorer says. “Anyone who interferes will be made to regret their actions most severely. Be sure to pass that along with your gossip, Jalyn.”

“Please, everyone here wants more children to look after,” Jalyn says dismissively. “If there was a way to get them married tonight, we would do it.”

Garan picks up the bottle of wine and checks it. There is a quarter of it left. Garan shrugs to himself and lifts the front of his bucket. He chugs the wine down straight from the bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand and lets out a rude belch.

“May the gods take mercy on us,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> demagolka: demagolka is someone who commits atrocities. Paz chooses this word because they risked Zephyr’s mental health for sex.


	5. The Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we start closing the time gap…
> 
> Word Count: ~7500  
> Warnings: Sad times, angst, mild description of a wound, cursing  
> Author’s Note: y’all I am so sorry for the delay. This chapter has been a pain in the ass to write. About two weeks ago I caught a major error that would have seriously messed up the entire plot, so I had to rewrite a huge chunk of this. Thank you all so much for being patient with me. Also, this assumes that the episodes occurred in chronological order and that Din spent a few weeks on Sorgan.

[start flashback]

From then on, Paz manages to treat Liam and Zeli with cold civility. He does not socialize with them past whatever is strictly necessary. The rest of the Tribe follows suit, though they are only slightly friendlier than him or Din. Slowly, but surely, he settles into the new routine of waking each morning to a cold, empty bed. His heart still aches whenever he sees the two of them together, but he knows it is for the best. Zephyr needs his _buir_ and stability more than anything else. By the time the Tribe has relocated to Nevarro, the young boy has grown into a lanky young man, still awkward, with pudgy cheeks that are becoming more angular by the day. At fifteen, he might be donning his first helmet soon, Paz thinks to himself, if they can keep him on track.

The traditional age of adulthood is thirteen, when a Mandalorian formally swears their oath to follow the _Resol’nare_. Despite this, most of them simply are not ready to be adults at that age. Many of the parents keep their adult-children close to ensure they are ready for their first solo jetpack flight, so to speak. Zephyr is one of those adult-children. His voice has broken, and his body has grown taller, but he is still firmly at home under the protective wings of his _buire_. His tendency to play pranks and blame others for his mishaps are the two main reasons why Liam and Zeli have not allowed Zephyr off on his own yet. Paz understands the logic and supports it. Some of the young ones come from deeply troubled backgrounds. If they need more time with their parents, he supports and respects that decision.

His stance surprises many, but he never had the luxury of a childhood, of a time where he could make mistakes without endangering another person’s life. The children are not constantly wondering where their next meal will come from. They do not have to think what they will have to sell to clothe themselves or how many lives they will need to take to fuel their ship. They might not have much to offer as a Tribe, but at least they can give their young ones the luxury of extended guidance.

Paz sighs and breaks from his reverie at the sound of raised voices. He goes to investigate the source of the noise and finds two hunters arguing over the placement of a crate. He wades into the argument and sends them to do work on opposite ends of the main tunnel. Once they are occupied, he sinks down onto the same crate, his bones aching with weariness, listening to the day-to-day noise. Armorer is whistling in the Forge, the occasional clang of her hammer punctuating the unnamed tune. People talking, arguing, and laughing. Footsteps from the children playing.

Something prickles at him, making his stomach turn with anxiety and dread. He has broken up four fights today, not including the one he just had with Din. He is ashamed of how easily he let his temper rise to the surface. What was Din thinking, taking bounties from an Imp? Their ‘official’ defeat meant nothing to the remnants still clinging to power. Din is impulsive, even reckless at times. He has always been smart enough to get himself into a mess of trouble, but he has not always been smart enough to always get himself out of it. This fight had been a very violent one, at least for the two of them. He had never drawn his weapon on Din from a place of pure anger before.

They have been arguing more lately, though neither of them can pinpoint exactly why the arguments had even begun in the first place. There is a distinct feeling of wrong in the air. Paz wedges his fingers up the front of his bucket to rub at his stinging eyes. He thinks it might be the oppressive heat of the underground tunnels. He honestly hates it here. Paz knows it is illogical to be ungrateful for a safe place to live, but he cannot wait for _Alor_ to give notice that they are to pack up and leave this blistering shithole of a planet. After those few precious minutes of rest, he heaves himself to his feet and heads to the worst of the noise, knowing he will find the children there. Pausing in the doorway, he lets them finish their last game.

“Alright, time for afternoon lessons,” he says, much to their dismay.

Despite their grumbled complaints, they put the few toys they have away and start tidying up their messes. Paz watches until the room is put back in order and nods once. He is corralling the children toward the makeshift schoolroom when he hears feet pounding on the hard ground.

“Din – “ someone gasps out, “ – being overwhelmed in town, something about stealing a Foundling bounty back? He killed some Imperial – "

The Tribe bursts into a flurry of chatter and movement. Some people are calling for an immediate retreat, others want to go back up Din. Paz does not hesitate to ready his weapons, checking to see if he has enough ammunition. Only half-full. Shit. _That idiot_ , Paz hisses to himself, as he whirls on his heel to check the armory for another canister of fuel. _That fucking idiot!_

Deep in his gut, he knows that this is not going to end well. Not for Din, nor for their Tribe. Paz refuses to abandon his brother, no matter how _kriffing_ stupid he might be. Armorer begins barking out orders. They are to provide enough cover for Din to retreat and nothing more. He can hear the rage in her voice, but she will never turn her back to a Foundling, even if it is by Din’s doing that it is in danger.

Paz does not hesitate to lead his group of hand-selected hunters into battle while Armorer stays behind to start evacuation procedures. He sends orders for them to flank Din’s last known position and provide cover for his retreat. Paz smothers the rage – turning in a child as a bounty? – but he has no time to think further about it. There are no fewer than thirty bounty hunters spread out through the streets, all of varying skill level.

“Mind the civilians,” Paz barks out over the radio. “I see him – he’s on the north end of the road, in that cart.”

“Oya, _Alor’ad_!” someone shouts over the radio.

Paz undoes the locking mechanism keeping his cannon attached to his jetpack and swings it forward. Checking his fuel gauge, Paz diverts enough fuel into the cannon’s reservoir to ionize a few hundred shots. He aims carefully as he begins to descend, the sound of his breathing filling his ears. Almost immediately, he takes out two of the more careless bounty hunters. The ones who are more aware of their surroundings take cover immediately.

His feet hit the ground with a jarring thud and suddenly, he is surrounded by the sound of blaster fire and shouts. Paz inhales and exhales, measuring his breaths, as he surveys the battlefield. Terys and Revala flank him, covering his _shebs_ while he suppresses their opposition. Calm fills him. Paz moves quickly and easily, never lingering in one spot for too long – his size makes him an easy target. As his _beskar’gam_ absorbs the worst of the blaster fire, it starts to heat up, sending a primal thrill into his belly. _This_ is his element. His gut clenches and he swings blindly. His fist collides solidly with someone’s head, knocking the humanoid figure back onto their ass. They don’t get back up.

Terys and Revala have been held up by a couple of persistent hunters, so Paz falls back to cover them the best he can. When they are finished, they come with him once more, resuming their sweep of the streets. As they wade into the thickest part of the battle, Paz is forced to swap his cannon for twin handheld blasters – there are too many civilians here, huddled in the rubble. As he passes by an overturned cart, he finds one of their youngest hunters laying on the ground, trying to splint his ankle.

 _“Alor’ad_ ,” Tyso says, giving him a jaunty wave.

“What happened?” Paz asks, tossing a roll of bandages down at him.

The young man moans as he picks it up and starts to wrap his ankle.

“Please, let’s discuss this later,” he says, his mortification clear.

“If this injury is related to those _kriffing_ backflips you insist on doing midair,” Paz snaps at him. “I swear the injuries I’ll inflict on you will be _much_ worse.”

The young man doesn’t answer, confirming his suspicions. The three of them provide enough cover for him to stabilize his ankle and lace up his boot tightly. Then he hobbles back into the fray. When they come to Din’s hiding spot, he finds his brother huddled on the bottom of the cart, a filthy bundle of rags in his arms.

Paz is revolted to see that it is only an infant, judging by its tiny size. He bites down the retort he wants to snap at his brother and simply nods at him. Din returns it silently. They will discuss this later once they have reunited. Din bolts past him. Through his rear camera, Paz watches until his brother is safe. It only takes a few more minutes before the opposition retreats. After taking stock of their injuries, Paz leads the retreat underground, where there is pure chaos awaiting them.

Losing the Razor Crest means that they are down to one ship for the entire Tribe, which means they won’t be able to send scouts ahead of them to survey for trouble. Paz helps shove supplies onto the various flatbed transportation units they have accumulated over the years. They grab the most valuable pieces of property – food rations, water, and their various tools of the trade. Whatever can be used to protect and nurture the children. Everything else will be left behind. Even at full speed, each trip down the tubes to the flat obsidian fields takes about five minutes each way, taking up precious time they do not have.

Armorer gathers their Tribe in the main tunnel, surveying them. The littlest ones are clinging to their parents’ legs. He can see Zeli, half-shrouded in the darkness, with Zephyr wrapped around her petite frame. She is patting his shoulder. Paz looks away. Armorer raises her hand, calling for silence. Then she speaks.

“Anyone under the age of twenty-two will be sent ahead with the children,” she says.

For a split second, there is nothing but silence. Then the tunnel descends into complete and utter chaos. Paz simply nods, a smile crossing his face. At nearly forty, he has outlived his own expectations. To stay and fight, to give the children and their young hunters a chance at life…it was more than he could have ever asked for.

He watches silently as the older teens and young adults demand to be allowed to fight, to earn their honor through combat. Armorer allows them a few moments of argument before she raps her breast plate sharply with her bracer. Immediately, the dissenters fall silent, though Paz can see some of them are barely restraining themselves from their outbursts.

“You know our ways. You have been trained by the best our Tribe has to offer,” she says to the teenagers. “Your duty is to pass on those skills to the children.”

“We can help!” one of the lankier teens says. “We’re not helpless.”

“I am aware of that,” Armorer says flatly. “You have also been given an order to protect your Tribe. Do not argue with me again.”

He looks desperately like he wants to argue, but a solemn shake of the head from his _buir_ makes him reconsider. The boy backs down, though he is extremely unhappy about it. He stalks off, kicking an overturned pail out of his way.

“Paz, begin coordinating transport,” Armorer says.

Once the cargo bay of the Desert Lark is crammed full of supplies, Paz sends the children in. The eldest carry the youngest without complaint and get them settled in the open spaces between cargo boxes. The young ones are furious at being sent ahead, but they do not dare argue any further.

Once all eighteen are accounted for, he permits Hannah, their only remaining elder, to board the ship. Above all else, they must preserve their heritage for the children, and Hannah is the one who knows most of their stories, songs, and history. She is grim, her lips set in a thin line. She is unhappy about having to leave the fight, but acquiesces, knowing that her duties to the children come before battle. Paz nods at her, shutting the door behind them. He retreats out of the way as Hannah starts powering up the ship. He’s almost sad that this is going to be the last time he’s going to see his old hunk of junk. For the past twenty years, it has served him well.

Paz hurries back to inform the others that the ship is ready for departure. When it is clear, he will send Hannah one last message to go. He does not know how long they have before the Imps show up with reinforcements. If they are lucky, they might have a few hours. But Paz is not one to put the safety of his foundlings in the hands of fate. It is always better to be safe. As he steps into view one last time, Armorer turns to him.

“Paz, I want you to go ahead as well,” Armorer says. “You will act in my stead.”

Her words are like ice-cold water across his entire body.

“ _Alor_ ,” he says. “It would make more sense for me to stay and fight.”

“Radio chatter puts the Imperials at twenty minutes from our current location. They are bringing at least two hundred troops,” she says flatly. “The twenty of us can handle two hundred troopers with ease. You, Terys, and Revala will take the children and injured.”

He is too shocked to speak.

“They are testing our strength. We will remain behind to destroy the evidence of our numbers,” Armorer said. “They cannot know we had children here. They must think that we are the last remaining adults.”

It makes sickening sense to him. If what he suspects is true, Din had not pissed off just some low-level Imperial bootlicker. The speed with which they are responding means that there is someone quite powerful directing their movements. The person responsible knows that Mandalorians hide their numbers, so this is simply a test to see how many warriors they have. They will be looking for evidence of active recruitment and the presence of children. Adults will be killed on sight; children will be enslaved to work whatever mines still exist. Paz exhaled, closing his eyes. Their survival lies in their secrecy. Not just for themselves, but for the other Tribes who may not have the warriors or resources they do.

“And yourself, _Alor_?” he asks quietly.

“I will remain behind."

He nods once, his throat tightening. After decades together, he cannot imagine leaving her behind to face the enemy while he just runs. As he stands there, watching her, the sinking feeling in his gut turns into deep, dark despair. His intuition tells him that they might be the victors tonight, but it will be their last victory on Nevarro. He looks at the other warriors. He grits his jaw and steels himself.

“Give them hell, _Alor_ ,” he says gruffly.

“They will regret their trespass,” Armorer says, nodding once at him.

Before he can ask her to reconsider once more, he turns to Terys and Revala. Their incredulity is palpable.

“ _Alor_ ,” Terys says. “Please reconsider. We can help.”

“You can help by protecting the children,” she says.

Paz checks the time. Fifteen minutes to go.

“You have your orders,” Paz barks at the duo. “Let’s go.”

“But we are this Tribe’s best chance,” Revala shouts at him, coming right up to him, jabbing him in the chest. “I am not leaving.”

“We are the best chance the children have of surviving,” Paz says crisply. “You were given an order. Get on the bike, or I will make you.”

After a few moments, Terys obeys silently, his hands tight around his weapon. He settles in the transport bed with the few warriors that are too injured to be of any use during combat. They are all young, which only cements his support of _Alor_ ’s decision.

“You’ll have to drag me,” Revala hisses at him. “I won’t leave again!”

Paz exhales. He had hoped to make this quick. As she starts to turn away, Paz slams his fist into her leg. His blow makes her entire leg spasm and she goes down with an agonized scream. Paz bends over and lifts Revala in his arms, even as she pushes against his cuirass, trying to free herself. Each step that he takes toward the bike feels like the knife in his gut is twisting tighter and tighter until he can’t breathe. He places Revala into the bed of the bike. Immediately, she tries to scramble back out, but he stops her with one hand on her shoulder.

“Please,” he says quietly. “Revala. Don’t do this.”

“No,” she pleads with him. “ _Alor’ad_ , we can help – “

Armorer turns to the rest of the Tribe.

“We protect our youngest,” she says. “This is The Way.”

“This is The Way,” they all echo back.

“This is The Way,” Revala whispers.

Revala lets out a low noise as she sinks back down, shaking her head in denial. Once Terys has a gentle hand around her upper arm, Paz settles onto the bike and turns it back on. As he starts piloting down the tunnel, he hears a solid clang of bracer against cuirass. Then it becomes a steady beat.

“ _Kote_!” Armorer sings, her rich voice rising above the noise. One by one, the remaining nineteen warriors join in, their voices rising and falling in time with the pounding of their bracers. “ _Motir ca’tra nau tracinya. Gra’tua cuun hett su dralshy’a._ ”

As they come around the bend, his Tribe’s voices fade away to faint echoes, nearly too distant to hear.

“ _Aruetyc runi solus cet o’r_ ,” Revala finishes in anguish, the solitary voice left behind where there were once two dozen.

* * *

In record time, they make it to the Desert Lark. There, he has Terys do one last head count. Once all eighteen of the young ones are accounted for, and the three injured are moved into the captain’s quarters, Paz pilots away from obsidian flats. He keeps low to avoid detection as he skirts around the lava field and away from the city. Paz works on autopilot, focusing his thoughts on the controls in front of him, doing everything he can to avoid thinking about the family he has left behind once more.

After several very tense minutes, he enters the coordinates for them to make the hyperspace jump. He chooses a series of random jump points to begin laying out a confusing trail for their pursuers. He shifts the lever to make the jump just as the computer warns him about incoming craft. Paz sits in the cockpit for a long time, staring blankly ahead into swirling blue maelstrom outside.

The children will be safe. His _vod_ will die like warriors. These two pieces of truth should bring him immense comfort, but he cannot help but to feel bitter and angry. He has lost so many loved ones over the years. Paz has always been the biggest, the fastest, the most capable. And what is his reward for being the best warrior? With every battle, he is the last one standing, unable to follow the ones he loves as they go marching away. He is the one who has to pick up the shattered remains of his people and put it all back together. With each soul-rending loss, it feels like he is losing more and more of himself.

Paz exhales shakily and scolds himself. He has not lost yet. The children – _his_ children – are safe. He is alive to provide and care for them. Rearing and protecting the next generation of Mandalorians are his priority. Paz steels himself. He can always mourn later. As _Alor,_ he must look after his people. One mistake now could cost him dearly in the future. For now, he will exercise caution.

He enters the cargo bay. Hannah has made food, but none of it has been touched. He can hear her washing the dishes in the galley, likely trying to distract herself. Terys and Revala are curled up against the wall, each one holding a child in their arms. The others are scattered around them, with the adults forming a perimeter around the children. Some are sleeping. Others are silent. Paz goes down the hallway to find the spare stash of blankets. Once everyone is tucked in, he does another head count. He comes up short one person.

Paz finds Zephyr behind a box in a dark corner, curled up around something in his lap. Paz goes to check on him. His heart stops when he sees what he has in his arms. Liam’s helmet. The black visor is cracked. A scorch mark has melted the audial on the left side. Paz falls to his knees next to Zephyr and pulls the young man into an awkward one-armed embrace.

“Do you want me to clean up your _buir’s_ helmet for you?” Paz asks quietly.

Zephyr nods once.

“When…when I’m old enough...can I wear it?” Zephyr asks. “Instead of having one made?”

“Yes,” Paz says. “It will be a good way for you to honor him.”

“I wish he hadn’t left so soon,” Zephyr whispers quietly. “I…I don’t know enough…to be on my own.”

“When you are ready, you will put that helmet on, and you will become an adult,” Paz says. “But you will never be alone, Zephyr. I cannot promise that I will still be alive tomorrow, Zephyr, but I can promise you that I will never willingly leave you.”

Zephyr leans his head against his shoulder, weeping quietly.

“For now, we must retreat.”

“Why didn’t mum come with us? Why didn’t the others come with us?” Zephyr asked. “Why did _Alor_ send the three of you with us?”

His gut twists with rage and sorrow in equal measures as he shifts himself into a seated position.

“The three of us have done this before,” Paz says quietly, his head settling back against the wall with a quiet _thunk_.

Zephyr looks up at him, a frown furrowing his brows. Paz thinks he’s old enough to know the story.

“I was twelve during the Night of One Thousand Tears,” Paz says. “The last time I saw my _buir_ was when he knocked me on my _shebs_ and tossed me into some scrapheap they scrounged up. He told us to run, that they would send adults to come look after us when the fighting died down.”

“Did your _buir_ know that there wouldn’t be anyone left?” Zephyr asks.

“Yeah,” Paz says. “I think he just wanted to make sure we hoped for the future. That we did not give up.”

Zephyr remains silent, staring down at the helmet.

“What was your _buir_ like?” Zephyr asks.

“Taller than me,” Paz supplies. “By about a centimeter.”

“How?” Zephyr asks incredulously. Paz can’t help but to laugh in response.

“It’s what led to him meeting my mother,” Paz said. “She was her clan’s armorer. He told her that he was exactly two meters tall when she asked for his measurements and she disagreed. They fought for nearly a quarter of an hour until she made him take his shoes off and stand against the wall. Even with his bucket on, he was still shy of two meters.”

Zephyr smiles, leaning his head against his shoulder. Paz continues.

“My mother was quite the troublemaker. After they were married, my mother had the clan tailor make my father new boots, except these had much thicker soles. Later, while he slept, she replaced his boots.”

“What happened?”

“The next morning, he asked her what she had done with his old boots. My mother said to him, ‘Mar, I cannot make your bucket bigger, so I had your soles thickened. Now you can finally claim that you are two meters tall, _ner riduur_.’ My father said she laughed until she cried.”

Zephyr laughs this time, still staring down at his father’s helmet. As the hours drift by, Paz tells Zephyr everything he can remember about his parents, dredging up the songs he had long thought forgotten. He tells Zephyr about how his mother would make _uj’ayali_ cake, and how his father would steal one or two bites and blame the mice. When Paz was born, _he_ became the little mouse, and often joined his father in ransacking his mother’s stash of sweets. Zephyr laughs, and sometimes he cries, but in the end, Paz can see that he has fulfilled his goal. Zephyr is at peace. It will not last long, but he will be able to sleep tonight at the very least.

When Zephyr finally falls asleep, Paz covers him up with a blanket, leaving him where he is. There is nowhere to sleep – all the beds are taken up by the injured. He will probably sleep in the chair in the cockpit. For now, he will protect his tribe, and there is only one thing he can do right now. Lead them to safety. Even so, Paz doesn’t know where _safety_ is, not with the remnants of the Empire lurking behind every asteroid.

They run and hide for months, weaving in and out of planetary systems to stay ahead of anyone who might be pursuing them. They hunt occasionally, but most of their time is spent working menial labor to earn credits, doing whatever they can to avoid attention until they can find a safe place to settle the children. At long last, they reach the other side of the Outer Rim, and go deep into hiding, recuperating from their injuries. When the others are healed up, he starts hunting, looking for what remains of his family.

Through the gossip network, he hears faint whispers about Nevarro, of how the Tribe there had been slaughtered entirely. Armorer has been a constant fixture in his life since they were both children. The mere thought of Armorer having a warrior’s death _without_ him there by her side offends him deeply. He flat out refuses to believe the rumors that they were all wiped out. His gut tells him there _are_ survivors, he just has not found them yet.

While he is gone, Dezha stumbles upon some of the children playing in the woods and asks to meet their _Alor_. Hannah is the one who negotiates to join their Tribe on his behalf, and he comes back to find his family happier, healthier, and quite a bit pudgier than when he had left. For the first time in nearly two years, Paz sleeps through the night, satisfied with the knowledge that his family is finally safe. He resumes hunting, searching for his family. He visits every planet he can recall mentioned in front of him, yet he turns up nothing. Months pass by, and he starts to despair, wondering if his intuition was wrong.

One fine spring morning, when the sun is high in the sky but not yet baking hot, _Alor_ Dezha tells him that the Tribe is expanding by four more. Paz is confused until Armorer saunters off the scrapheap she calls a ship, looking quite pleased with herself. The three remaining members of his Tribe follow at her heels. Paz stares at her for a moment before doing something that no other person has ever dared to do before. Or if they had, they did not survive to tell anyone about it.

Paz steps forward and pulls Armorer into a crushing hug, slamming his forehead against hers with a bone-jarring clash that makes his ears ring. Before she can reach for her hammer, he gracefully retreats, ignoring the snickers from their Tribe.

“Touch me again, Vizsla, and I will put my hammer through your skull,” she says, sounding equally annoyed and pleased.

He knows what she means, though.

_I missed you too, buckethead._

[end flashback]

* * *

The day after he is released from Doctor Shen’s questionable mercies, Paz uses his privilege as _Alor’ad_ to shut down their four-lane shooting range, using the explanation that he was giving someone private lessons. Surprisingly, neither Dezha nor Armorer question him. In fact, they seem to encourage him to take as much time as he needs. Paz finds it a bit strange, but he continues forward with his plan. You do need some more training with your blasters. Your skills are passable. He thinks you can improve to good by the end of the year.

He also spends way too long sorting through his collection of blasters to carefully select an assortment of weapons for you to choose from. He eventually settles on twelve of his favorite blasters so you can spend a few minutes with each one to test their heft, the kickback, and the firing rate. He recalls that you are ambidextrous, so you might do well with a pair of them. One for close-range use, one for mid-range use.

 _Maybe one for droids,_ he thinks, considering the arsenal at his disposal.

Then he picks out two rifles he thinks you might enjoy shooting. They are light, but they pack a serious punch. He hasn’t seen you shoot anything long-distance, so he hopes to have you at least able to aim with something long-range to help round out your skills. He polishes his armor, packs his weapons, steals more of Terys’s face toner, and heads down to the firing range, taking the shortest route. You are already there, leaning against the wall.

_Okay, Vizsla, greet her with something that isn’t ‘hey’. Or ‘come here often’. Oh fuck, she’s looking at me._

“Afternoon,” Paz settles on after a split-second of frantic thought. “Ready to head in?”

“Yes,” you say as you bounce on the balls of your feet. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

_Oh, Maker above._

You have been looking forward to spending time with him. No one has ever said those words to him before, and his heart flutters. Paz doesn’t know how he is going to get through the next hour without doing something to embarrass himself. Paz takes a deep breath and centers himself. He is not going to fuck this mission up. He will make this an enjoyable event for you, and he will succeed in teaching you a few things.

Paz sets his case down on the table.

“So, what are we shooting?” you ask, coming up next to him.

“I picked out a few things you might like,” he says. “If you don’t mind?”

“What? No, of course not,” you say. “I trust you.”

His stomach flops and his hands falter as he starts showing you the weapons. Now that he is in his element, he settles into Range Master mode, and explains the feature of each weapon. Lightweight, low recoil, easy to handle, and easy to reload.

“This one packs a punch,” he says. “But I don’t think you will need it.”

“What, you don’t think I can handle myself?” you ask playfully.

“Well, if anyone starts shooting at you, I’ll take care of the problem,” he assures.

Your head tilts a bit, your visor glinting.

“I mean, not that I don’t think you can’t take care of yourself,” he immediately corrects. “It’s just that…well…I don’t want you to get hurt.”

No response.

_Fuck, did I piss her off?_

“What I’m trying to say is that I would happy to shoot anyone who shoots at you,” he says lamely.

You laugh in response.

“You’re funny,” you respond.

His confidence returns to him. He walks you through every step of the way, showing you how to handle the weapons. He shows you how to hold them properly, correcting your grip on occasion. He helps you adjust your posture. As you grow more confident in yourself, your accuracy and precision improve vastly.

“You’re doing great,” he says, hoping it will encourage you.

Honestly, he has no idea what else to say. He isn’t good with words or emotions. This is a first for him. You turn your head away shyly. He can only imagine the flush on your cheeks. When his thoughts drift to what you might look like, he refocuses his attention elsewhere, considering it too disrespectful to continue that line of thought. You make it through the entire group of blasters, but he has noticed that you favor two specific ones.

“Do you like the Westar-34s?” he asks casually.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “They’re really nice.”

“If you want to borrow them, let me know,” he says. “I’d be happy to lend ‘em to you.”

Paz silences himself before he can finish the sentence.

_And maybe give them to you as a wedding gift._

“Really?” you ask softly, “You’d really let me borrow your blasters?”

“Yeah,” he says a bit gruffly, softly. “Just for you, though.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, so quietly that he almost doesn’t hear it.

“Ever shot a sniper rifle?” he asks.

“No,” you say, “Never. But I would really like to learn how. Uhm. That is if you have the time.”

“I always have time for you,” he says.

Again, you turn your head away shyly, and he wonders if he’s overstepped. He decides to back off. He is starting to suspect you don’t actually have much experience in the realm of romance. The last thing he would ever want to do is make you uncomfortable. Paz puts the blasters down on the range table, making sure they are facing downrange.

 _They’ll be fine there,_ he thinks.

He hands the sniper rifle over. After a quick tutorial, he encourages you to shoot it. Paz is pleasantly surprised by how well you handle it. He thinks it might be due to how focused you are in the workshop. When you are in the flow of working, you focus on your task with laser-like precision, and no one can distract you. It’s one of the things that he admires about you.

He shows you how to reload it. When the hour is nearly up, you flip the safety on, holding the rifle in your hands.

“I really enjoyed this,” you say to him. “I am so glad you asked me to share this with you, Paz.”

 _Yes! One point for Vizsla,_ he thinks to himself.

“I’m glad,” Paz says, and he gives your shoulder an affectionate smack.

It ends up being too affectionate and you drop the rifle in your hands. The strap catches on the butt of the blaster. Paz realizes that he has fucked up by not engaging the safety on the blaster. The blaster tips backwards off the table and the pistol grip tangles in the rifle strap. Belatedly, he remembers why he _hates_ the open trigger design of the Westar-34.

He shoves you out of the way, hoping to get you out of the line of fire. The blaster discharges and the round pings off his thigh armor. It grazes the side of his thigh and scorches him. But it doesn’t actually cause any significant damage. He curses the _idiot_ who had decided that an _open trigger guard_ would be at all acceptable for a weapon.

Paz bends down and scoops the blaster up. He immediately begins to ream himself out.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, “I am so sorry – “

“Are you okay?” you ask. Then you gasp. “Paz, you’re bleeding – “

“It’s fine,” he says, trying to soothe away your worry. He doesn’t like how distraught you are. It isn’t your fault. It was his for shoving you around like that. He _knows_ better than to fuck around like that while handling a live weapon, especially one as stupidly designed as the Westar-34. He has reamed out more than one stupid hunter for the exact same stunt.

“I’ll call Doctor Shen,” you say.

“No,” he says firmly. “I’ll walk to medical. It’s not that serious.”

“You’re bleeding,” you say. “Paz, are you crazy?”

“Listen, Shu’shika, I fucked up by not turning the safety on,” he says, trying to make you feel better. “You could have ended up getting shot due to my stupidity. If you want, you can walk with me to medical.”

You falter. Then you nod.

“Okay, but we go now,” you say.

Paz agrees. He staunches the wound with a cleaning rag from his bag and puts the rest of the weapons away. Then he slings the case onto his back and leads the way to medical. There, he finds Doctor Shen.

“What the hell happened now?” she asks firmly.

“Had a small accident,” Paz says.

“What am I going to do with the two of you?” Doctor Shen asks, pulling out one of her stitching kits.

Paz puts the case down on the floor and starts undoing his armor. Doctor Shen sends you away, with stern instructions to go clean up the shooting range. Doctor Shen jabs him with a shot. As if the universe couldn’t humiliate him enough, Din Djarin strides in, carrying his cute little green goblin of a child.

“Let me guess,” Din says. “She shot you.”

“It was an accident,” Paz responds sharply. “I knocked the rifle out of her hand. Blaster fell off the table and got caught on the strap. She’s fine, by the way.”

Din holds his free hand up in surrender.

“Westar-34?” Din asks casually.

Paz grimaces, the injection site on his thigh burning in a most peculiar fashion.

“I’m gonna have every single _kriffing_ one modified to enclose the trigger,” Paz says.

Din shakes his head.

“You concuss yourself trying to ask her out. You get yourself shot on your date,” Din remarks. “What are you going to do for your second date? Bake a grenade into the tiingilar?”

“I would die a happy man at least,” Paz says, shrugging.

“So…uh….are you and Shu’shika…together? Formally?” Doctor Shen asks casually.

“I haven’t asked for anything official yet,” Paz says. “Though with the way everything has gone, I wouldn’t blame her if she reconsidered.”

“Nah,” Doctor Shen says. “She likes you.”

“I hope so,” Paz says.

He leans back as Doctor Shen starts stitching up the wound. Okay, so maybe the first date did not go the way he had hoped. At least no one ended up seriously wounded, he consoles his bruised pride with. Din stays with him for a while longer to keep him company. At long last, the wound is cleaned, stitched, and covered with a bacta pad. Then he gets sent to rest and elevate his leg. He knows better than to ignore Doctor Shen’s orders, so he goes back to his room and reclines on the bed, propping his leg up on a pillow. He stares up at the ceiling, considering what he might suggest for a second date.

* * *

[Bonus Scene]

After leaving Paz in medical, you go back to the shooting range and clean up the mess. Then you head back to your room, trying to act as normally as possible to avoid giving any of the shit-stirrers material to gossip about. You _almost_ make it when you find Jalyn standing in the middle of the hall, blocking you in front of the doorway, in full sight of a suspiciously-full _karyai._

“Shu’shika!” he announces happily, catching everyone’s attention. “How’d your _private lessons_ go?”

Your face burns in embarrassment as giggles spread through the ranks of eavesdroppers. You take a deep breath, hoping that no one had seen the two of you heading to medical.

“ _Alor’ad_ showed me how to use a sniper rifle,” you say calmly, trying to edge around Jalyn and his big fat mouth, “I think it went really well.”

A familiar silver figure pokes his head into view.

“If you think shooting Vizsla in the knee is doing well, I’d hate to see your definition of bad,” Din says casually.

You take a half-step back reflexively as every head in the _karyai_ turns in your direction.

“You _shot_ him?” Jalyn asked, his grin spreading wider across his face.

“It was an accident,” you stammer out. “I definitely did not shoot him on purpose.”

“When’s the wedding?” someone shouts at you.

“He only sees me as a friend,” you argue. “There’s nothing like that going on.”

“Bantha shit!” Garan shouts, slamming his fist on the table, scattering his pile of gambling tokens. “You two idiots need to confess your love for each other before the rest of us end up _dead_.”

Raucous laughter fills the _karyai_. Your face burns again, though not from embarrassment. You hardly dare believe that _Paz_ would want you. You skitter around Jalyn and ignore him as you go back to your room. Once there, you lock the door behind yourself and lean against it. Then you slide to the floor, taking your bucket off.

Okay. Time to think this through logically.

Has Paz ever provided you with food from his own plate? No. Well, except for all the times he has slipped you chocolate after returning from a hunt. And those times where he gave you some jerky to snack on. And there was that one time where he brought you a buttered bread roll when you forgot to get dinner. Technically, none of that food came from his plate. Did it count, though? Or was he being a typical hunter, trying to provide for you when he knew you had not taken care of yourself? You move on, hardly daring to believe he was being anything but his sweet, caring self.

Has Paz ever gone out of his way to ensure your happiness? He does that for everyone, you argue with yourself. That hopeful voice in the back of your head counters – has he ever brought someone’s favorite fruit back to them, unbidden? Absently, you think back on the afternoon you had spent with Paz, eating those sweet and sour cherries until your stomachs ached and you had to see Doctor Shen. That afternoon, spent hiding together in one of the trees and talking about everything that came to mind, had been one of the most pleasant ones you have ever had.

Has Paz ever provided you with weapons? Absently, you think the two of you have not fought together in combat...but then you recall his offer to let you borrow those cursed Westar-34s. An odd feeling fills your belly, your heart swelling with some unnamed emotion. Paz _never_ shares his weapons. In fact, he has told people off for touching his blasters, even to just move them out of the way. He had given you ammunition, rather than make you dip into your own supply. Closing your eyes, you calm yourself down. Don't get head of yourself, you think. Next point.

Has he ever brought back gifts for you? Well, not really, but – wait. _Wait_ a second.

Flustered, you run to your shelves in the corner and take down the battered cookie tin where you keep your odds and ends. A string of tiny silver beads, a broken bright shell from some exotic beach, and a tiny wood carving of a loth-cat. A little ceramic box with gold-plated buttons. A leather thimble to protect your fingers. A block of beeswax, lightly scented with flowers and something citrusy. You sink down to the floor, hardly daring to believe it. Each one of these trinkets was something you had mentioned in passing to him or while he was within hearing distance.

You gently put the lid back onto the tin, your heart pounding and your face flushed. You are a grown woman, yet you have _never_ felt like this before about anyone else. Reaching up, you grab your pillow with trembling fingers and bury your face in it. You start to giggle, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, as pure elation fills you.

Crawling into bed, you pull your pillow back over your head. You’ve wanted Paz for ages now, but you were always too scared to make a pass at him. You always considered him so far out of your league that he might as well be on the other side of the Outer Rim. But here you have confirmation that Paz Vizsla _wants_ you. Another delighted noise escapes you. He isn’t the type to have flings, you think to yourself. He will want something long term. Maybe, he might even be interested in marri- You take a deep breath. Calm down, you tell yourself. No need to get too far ahead of yourself. He’s probably trying to see if you’re interested in him.

You nod to yourself. You have little experience with relationships, so this will go by slowly. You drift off, wondering how you will bring up your lack of experience to him. There are so many other factors to consider as well – would he want a physical relationship before marriage? Would he want a larger family than average? The thoughts just keep whirling in your head as you drift off to sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buir(e) – parent(s)  
> Resol’nare – The six tenets by which all Mandalorians abide.  
> Alor - Leader  
> Alor’ad - Captain  
> Shebs – Butt, ass, arse  
> Kote! Motir ca’tra nau tracinya. Gra’tua cuun hett su dralshy’a. Aruetyc runi solus cet o’r. – (From a Mandalorian war chant called Vode An.) Glory! Those who stand before us light the night sky in flame. Our vengeance burns brighter still. Every last traitorous soul shall kneel.  
> Vod – brother, comrade, mate  
> Ner riduur – my husband/wife/spouse  
> Uj’ayali – Cake, Paz loves his sweets


	6. Taken, Lost, Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Nothing romantic, but this chapter focuses on Paz and Zephyr.  
>  **Word Count:** ~12.3k (yeah, you read that right)  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Warnings:** Mentions of sadness, taking a bounty, cursing, references to slavery, angst, character death, suicide, angst, and sadness. Mostly edited because this chapter wrecked me.
> 
> You get one (1) laugh at the start. Then there is sadness. On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is a stubbed toe and 10 is Where the Red Fern Grows, I personally feel like this is a 11. You can find translations at the end. Last warning: **this is a sad chapter.**

[Flashback]

Paz looks out over the karyai, watching as his vod go about their business. It has been three months since Hannah first negotiated for their entry into Tribe Marell, yet he still finds himself amazed at the sheer opulence they now live in. Well, opulence by his lower-than-average standards. To most of the galaxy, an abandoned pirate hideout in the middle of fucking nowhere would probably rank as barely habitable. Compared to Nevarro, however, this place is _paradise_ – they have running water, electricity during the day, and functioning environmental controls.

The first child to get settled in was, of course, Junior. The memory still brings a smile to Paz’s face. You were sitting on the ground, twisting reeds into a makeshift basket when Junior approached. Without hesitation, you offered your arm to him and pulled him into your lap. Before he could cry out, you offered him a little citrus candy. The child, of course, chose food over crying. That was all it took for the rest of the children to come clamoring forward for their own tart candies, breaking the tension among the young ones.

The older ones were put to work learning how to weave, while the younger ones were kept within viewing range to keep them out of trouble. To entertain them, you sang songs for them. Some were Mandalorian songs; others were from your home world. Once the baskets were finished, you sent the horde ahead to get cleaned up for dinner, keeping Junior on your hip. Paz had to admit that he was almost jealous of how quickly Junior had taken to you. He kept an eye out for you from then on. It took only one sternly worded warning for the unrulier children to stop taking advantage of your forgetful nature and to stop hiding your things.

Today, he sees that you are baking something with the littlest members of the Tribe. He has no desire to end up covered in flour and sugar, so Paz has retreated to safety a reasonable distance away.

“Hey, old man,” comes a familiar voice.

“Hey, brat,” Paz responds, sidestepping Zephyr’s affectionate smack.

“What are the little monsters doing now?” he asks, looking at the congregation of children surrounding you.

“Shu’shika is baking cookies, I think,” Paz says, shrugging a shoulder. “Not sure exactly what kind.”

“That’s a _lot_ of butter,” Zephyr says, watching as you start cutting up a literal block of it.

“Anything that uses that much butter and sugar has got to be delicious,” Paz says. “Hopefully, I’ll get some while they’re still warm.”

“Hopefully, he says,” Zephyr mutters under his breath.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Paz asks, thumping the top of his bucket with annoyed affection.

“Vizsla, you somehow manage to get all the extras before any of us can get to them,” Zephyr says, swatting his hand away. “It’s not fair to us.”

“Early strill gets the scraps,” Paz says with a shrug, unable to keep the grin off his face.

He _has_ noticed that you seem to have extras when he comes to the kitchen. Were you trying to endear yourself to him for some reason? He will need to consider the matter further.

“More like the favorite strill gets the scraps,” Zephyr mutters.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Paz asks, giving the younger man an annoyed look.

Suddenly, Paz realizes that he no longer has to tilt his head down as much. Zephyr now stands at his shoulder in height, a far cry from the scrawny child who once only came up to his hip. _Shit,_ Paz thinks, _he’s already nineteen. Or is it twenty?_ _How the hell?_

“Nothing, nothing,” Zephyr says. “So, uh. I wanted to ask you something.”

“I’m not letting you borrow my cannon,” Paz says casually.

“That’s not what I was going to ask,” he argues defensively.

“Really,” Paz says. “What is it, kid?”

“Well, Armorer is sending you out today, right?” he asks. Paz nods once. “I was wondering if we could make this my first official hunt…” He trails off, looking out over the karyai. “I think I’m ready.”

Paz is deeply touched. He has had the honor of teaching many young hunters, but he has only overseen a handful of first hunts for the tribe. He claps one heavy hand onto Zephyr’s shoulder, emotion making his throat tight and gruff. He has had the privilege of being part of Zephyr’s life for the past fourteen years. Now, he will be there for that next step in his life as an adult Mandalorian.

“I think you’re ready, too,” Paz says quietly, trying to hide the gruffness of his voice. “I was beginning to wonder if you had gone off and done a secret hunt without telling me.”

“Nah,” Zephyr says casually, though Paz can hear the carefully restrained emotion in his voice, too. “I was just hoping you’d let me shoot your cannon this time around.”

“Not a snowball’s chance on Tatooine,” Paz responds, squeezing his shoulder affectionately, making the young man huff in amusement. They break apart after a moment and Zephyr clears his throat.

“So, ah, when can we get out of here?” Zephyr asks, trying and failing to sound casual.

“Are you eager to learn, or are you trying to shirk your duties here?”

“Alor’ad, I am _wounded_ at your implication,” Zephyr says, with a grin that he can hear. “I would _never_ try to avoid babysitting duties. The young ones are our _future_.”

“Uh-huh,” Paz says, shaking his head. He checks the main message board, where Armorer has been putting together a list of the supplies they need, as well as notes from the other hunters on the safest places to purchase those goods.

“The list is ready,” Paz says. “But it will take Garan a little while to go over it and pick the marketplaces out.”

He will also need to see if the location has been visited before, and if they had fallen into a pattern. They cannot visit the same location too frequently or send the same hunter each time. They also cannot buy the same amount of product each time, to avoid giving any possible informants an estimate of their numbers. Everything they do must be as random as possible to maintain their secrecy.

“Soo…even _if_ I might have been put down for babysitting duties…I can still come with you, right?”

“Sure,” Paz says. “But if anyone asks, the both of us will need to play dumb.”

“Doesn’t that come naturally for us?”

Paz can’t stop the bark of laughter from escaping him at his deadpan tone. Zephyr straightens up, clearly happy at having elicited a reaction from him.

“Go get your gear ready,” Paz says, unable to help his smile. “I’ll go get the ship ready.”

“Aye, Alor’ad!”

Paz shakes his head as Zephyr runs off to get his gear. He makes his way to the hangar, where he begins going through his preflight checklist. The cargo bay is completely empty in preparation for his hunt: all the straps are hung where they belong, scanners are fully charged, and there are plenty of plastic crates neatly collapsed in the corner. Coming to the cockpit, he continues checking items off his mental list, including the various fluid levels. From up here, he can see Terys and Garan opening the hangar bay doors. Paz comes down the ladder and then exits via the ramp. He finds Zephyr at the bottom, his bag on his shoulder, and his weapons holstered.

“Well, that was quick,” Paz says as he folds his arms across his chest, tilting his visor down at Zephyr.

_Looks like the little shit’s had this planned for a while,_ Paz thinks to himself.

“I know how to pack efficiently,” Zephyr says. “Permission to come aboard, Alor’ad?”

“Yeah, go get everything turned on,” Paz responds.

Revala comes to the ramp, pushing one of the flatbed transporters in front of herself. She looks at Zephyr and shakes her head.

“Hannah is going to skin you alive,” she warns. “You’ve skipped babysitting rotations twice already.”

“Shu’shika has the ankle biters,” Zephyr says. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt the valuable lesson she is imparting upon them. It would be un-Mandalorian-like for me to rob them of their education.”

“Uh-huh,” Revala says, shaking her head. “You’d better bring something nice back for her, since she’s covering for your lazy shebs.”

“I’m not lazy,” Zephyr says. “I would just prefer to not have to deal with a horde of unruly children.”

Revala shrugs, pushing the cart up the ramp.

“Most of us would prefer to not deal with them,” Revala says. “But we are family, so we must all suffer childcare duties in equal measure.”

Zephyr snorts in response. He goes inside to do as he is told. Revala pushes the cart inside for them to use to move their goods and anchors it to the floor. Paz finishes confirming what he needs with Armorer and does one final walk around the ship, checking to make sure that everything is visibly intact.

Once that short task is complete, he boards his ship and makes his way to the cockpit, where Zephyr has made himself comfortable in the copilot’s chair, his legs swinging back and forth. Paz pilots out of the hangar smoothly and then begins the ascent up and out of the atmosphere. Once suspended in the smooth, ink-black void of space, Paz throttles forward, beginning the hyperspace jump. Then he looks to Zephyr and holds his hand out expectantly.

Silently, the young man hands over a bag of jerky. Paz takes it and grabs a piece, working it under the front of his bucket and into his mouth.

“So, where are we off to?” Zephyr asks.

Paz finishes chewing the jerky before responding.

“Somara,” Paz says. “We’ll be there in about six hours.”

“Oh, fun,” Zephyr says. “Six _hours_. With _you_.”

“Listen here, you little shit, you asked to tag along,” Paz says. “You keep complaining and I’ll punt you right out the back.”

Zephyr only laughs in response, crossing one leg over his knee. He takes out his data pad. Before he can turn it on, Paz looks to him, a silent demand to know what he is doing.

“Huttese lessons,” Zephyr says. “Not slacking off _completely_.”

Paz only shakes his head in response. The two of them remain in companionable silence for several hours, occasionally discussing their current educational pursuits. Despite Zephyr’s insistence on annoying the absolute shit out of him at every single opportunity, Paz finds himself enjoying the peaceful quiet with his young companion. Paz glances over.

The kid’s head is bobbing a bit, indicating that Zephyr has already fallen asleep. Paz shakes his head. Getting to his feet, he goes to the back of the cockpit and pries open the storage locker. He pulls out an old blanket and spreads it across Zephyr’s chest. The young man lets out a loud snore, his head lolling back on the seat cushion. Paz plucks the data pad from his hand and puts it away.

Paz returns his attention to the controls, shaking his head with annoyed affection.

* * *

Somara’s main market is bustling, with people and carts going every which way.

Zephyr has never been in a city this large before, Paz thinks to himself, watching as the young man tries to look at everything all at once, his head swiveling back and forth dizzingly. The sky above is a bright shade of aqua, dotted with puffy white clouds as far as the eye can see. The cobblestone streets are lined with a variety of ramshackle tents and the occasional permanent structure. Zephyr pauses to watch a shopkeeper auction off some sort of animal carcass. Paz slows down _a tiny bit_ , just so he can have a few extra moments to absorb the bright colors and noises.

They pass by two individuals squabbling over an overturned cart and a pile of cabbages. Paz steps over the baskets. One of them makes to snap at him, but they very quickly decide not to say anything to him. Zephyr sticks close to him as he leads the way through the street. Paz hears his stomach rumble when they pass by another stall selling heavily spiced meat sticks. He makes a note to stop for something to eat before they return to the ship.

The crowds part easily around him, both due to his size and his armor. They seem to pick up on the fact that Zephyr is what they call a ‘tourist’ and kind of ignore him. Paz makes another note to get the young man confident in his armor. No matter how often a young hunter goes out, it is still jarring to transition from child and buir to – Paz quickly corrects himself.

He might have looked after Zephyr, but he has no right to think of him as his child, even in passing. It would be disrespectful to the ones who did raise him into the fine young hunter he is today. Paz grabs Zephyr by the pauldron and hauls him back as he starts to wander toward another stall. He ducks his head sheepishly.

“The Leaky Droid,” Paz says to Zephyr, tilting his head at the dingy building. “Usually where you’ll find this Guildmaster Soros during the day.”

Zephyr nods, tilting his head back to scan the building façade. It is dirty and run down, but this is the place to be if one needs information or work. Fortunately, Paz has earned the right to simply walk in without being frisked by the guards. They make to step toward Zephyr, but Paz stares them down until they back off. Paz leads the way into the bar, which is crowded, even at the early midday hour, which nearly drowns out the tinny music playing over the speakers. Most of them are fellow bounty hunters. The more experienced ones lift their glasses in his direction.

“Big Blue!” comes a voice.

“Guildmaster Soros,” Paz intones smoothly. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What can I do for you?” the dark-haired woman asks, gesturing at the booth in front of herself.

Paz gestures for Zephyr to get in. Paz follows. If there’s a fight, he’ll be of more use than Zephyr will be. He sits there, his hands politely folded on the table in front of him. Guildmaster Soros looks at him, then at Zephyr.

“New trainee?” Guildmaster Soros asks.

“Yeah,” Paz says. “We are looking at getting him started in the bounty hunting business.”

“Alright,” Guildmaster Soros says. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Me?” Zephyr asks stupidly. “Well, uh, my name’s…uhm – “

Paz almost grimaces as Zephyr stammers for another moment.

“How old is this kid?” Guildmaster Soros asks Paz, raising one dark brow questioningly as she cuts Zephyr off.

“You can call me nineteen. I’m Mando years old.”

_Oh, sweet suffering spirits_ , Paz thinks to himself, trying desperately to choke down his laughter. Guildmaster Soros stares at Zephyr, a look of pure amusement on her face. Zephyr keeps his head high, though Paz can feel the young man cringing at his slipup. Well, he’s heard worse in his lifetime, and Paz is pretty sure that so has Guildmaster Soros.

“…so do you want to go by Nineteen or Mando?” she asks.

“Mando,” Zephyr says. “Uh. Please.”

“Well, there’s a few of you who come through here,” Guildmaster Soros says. “So…”

“Uh…” He looks down at his bracers. “Green Mando.”

“Big Blue, you have got to get this kid socialized,” Guildmaster Soros says at him. “Verdesly it is, then.”

“Verdesly?” Zephyr asks, tilting his head.

“It means windswept meadow in my language,” Guildmaster Soros says. “Your armor is green.”

“Oh,” Zephyr says. “That’s fine. It’s better than Green Mando. Thank you.”

Her brow goes up even further and she gives Paz another look.

“So, what brings you in, Big Blue?”

“The usual,” Paz says smoothly. “Your smile, of course.”

“Quit your shit,” she responds flatly, though there is a quirk at the corner of her lips. “I have six pucks. I’ll let you have first pick. Then we can talk about something for Verdesly. If he makes it through these, I’ll let him have a little one. Sound good?”

“Yes, please,” Zephyr says earnestly. “I’d really appreciate it.”

She puts the pucks on the table and pushes them toward Paz. He scans through them and selects two. The first will be relatively easy so he can get a good estimate of where Zephyr is. The second will be the one that brings in the money for this particular hunt. He does not _need_ to hunt on this trip out, but it will be some fun he has not had in a while.

“As usual, good choice,” Guildmaster Soros says. “I look forward to working with you again.”

Paz gets out of the booth. Zephyr slinks after him, clearly embarrassed. Paz makes a third note to work on helping him disguise his emotional state, at least in front of outsiders.

“Betha,” Guildmaster Soros says to the bartender. “Get Big Blue six-pack of the usual, and a juice box for the kid.”

Laughter fills the bar and friendly taunts start flying in. Zephyr tries to hold his head up.

“Apple juice, please,” he says to the bartender, which only inflames the laughter.

Well, at least he wasn’t taking himself _too_ seriously, Paz says, shaking his head. The droid comes out from behind the divider and hands him a cardboard box with his favorite beer. Then the droid thrusts a single juice box into Zephyr’s hand.

“Thank you,” Zephyr says, tucking the juice into his pouch.

The droid beeps and returns to its place behind the divider. They exit the bar and Paz leads the way into the market, where they pick up something to eat. Pausing by one of the stalls, he sees a few trinkets that catch his attention.

After a few minutes of contemplation, he decides on what he is buying. For Zephyr, he picks out a small enameled pin in the shape of an apple to commemorate his introduction into the Guild. Paz thinks he will be laughing about the juice box comment for years to come. Then, to placate Armorer, he picks up a glittering crystal to make up for the fact that he had knowingly taken Zephyr out while he was skipping babysitting duties. Finally, for Shu’shika, he picks up a tiny carved loth-cat, to apologize for Zephyr dumping the kids on her. Hopefully, he will get some snacks out of it, too. Back on the ship, Zephyr sits in the copilot’s chair, letting his head hit the wall with a solid _thud_. Paz stands in the doorway, arms folded across his cuirass.

“What’s bugging you, kid?” he asks.

“I made a fool of myself,” Zephyr moans. In a mocking tone, he repeats his words from earlier, “ _I go by nineteen. I’m Mando years old.”_

“Eh, she’s heard worse,” Paz says with a shrug, as he turns back to the console. Well, _probably_. He tosses the puck at Zephyr, who manages to catch it. “So, where to, hunter?”

Zephyr looks at him, then at the puck, and then back at him.

“Last known coordinates were just outside of town,” Zephyr says. “About a week ago. Since they have pissed off a _lot_ of people, they know the ports are being watched. I think they might have tried to go the private route or tried to hide out in the badlands. Considering they’ve pissed off the local mob, I don’t think there are many cargo pilots willing to take on the risk of transporting them off the records. So, I think we should do a flyover of the badlands and see if we get a ping.”

Okay, maybe Zephyr _does_ have half-a-braincell to himself, Paz thinks. He nods once.

“So, how are you planning to get there?” Paz asks, tilting his head down at Zephyr.

“Like I said, we could do a flyby,” Zephyr says. “Take it slow, circle out from around the oasis, about two kilometers, I think. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Paz says. “So, how are you planning to get there?”

Zephyr stares up at him. Paz can see the wheels turning.

“…do you want _me_ to fly _your_ ship?” Zephyr asks, his head jerking up.

Paz looks up at the ceiling and exhales pointedly. Zephyr scrambles up and into the pilot’s chair. He starts adjusting the settings, much to Paz’s annoyance, and scoots forward a good six inches. Then he begins the startup sequence. Paz plops down in the copilot’s chair, watching as Zephyr confidently handles the controls. They smoothly lift into the air and keep at a low altitude.

Maybe a full braincell, Paz thinks, smiling fondly under his bucket.

* * *

The two of them are laying on top of a shale outcropping, binoculars focused on a speck in the distance. Zephyr is calm and focused, laying as flat as he can against the stone to avoid giving away their position.

“So, what do you see?” Paz asks nonchalantly.

“Two twi’lek,” Zephyr says. “The target and…a child?”

Paz peers through the binoculars and nods once in agreement. The target had been seen with the child, though no one knew if it was actually his. Judging by the way he was tossing the kid into the air, it was probably his. Time to see where Zephyr’s heart lay.

“So, how would you handle this one?” Paz asks casually. “Bounty says he’s wanted dead or alive.”

Zephyr exhales.

“We go in under the cover of night,” Zephyr says. “Bag the target as quietly as possible. Take the kid with us.”

“Take the kid?” Paz repeats.

“It looks like a girl,” Zephyr says. “If we leave her here, she dies of starvation.”

“Yeah, so why not take her back into town?” Paz asks, already knowing the answer.

“Somara doesn’t have any orphanages. If we leave her in town, someone will snatch her up off the streets and sell her to a brothel,” Zephyr says. “So, we take her to Amiren first and leave her at the convent. They’ll watch over her, teach her some skills. Probably educate her.”

Paz tilts his head in assent. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Zephyr that it won’t always be this easy.

“Does…does that sound acceptable?” Zephyr asks quietly.

“That’s the best outcome for a twi’lek girl without a family,” Paz says. “Lead on.”

Zephyr gets to his knees and keeps a low profile as he leads the way toward the canyons. They set off at an easy pace on the hired transport bikes, which allows them to reach the encampment by nightfall. Zephyr strides into the circle of firelight. The male twi’lek stands up, the tools in his lap going flying.

“Come any closer and I will shoot you,” he says, fumbling for a weapon.

“Let’s not do this in front of your kid,” Zephyr says. “Why don’t you ask her to go put her toys away so we can talk?”

The man fumbles for the firearm at his side. Zephyr shoots him with the grappling hook at his side and quickly yanks the firearm away. He flings it into the brush.

“I won’t ask again,” Zephyr says. “Let’s talk.”

“Sweetie,” the man says to the child. “Go inside and stay there.”

“Daddy,” the girl says, “What’s going on?”

“Go inside,” he repeats. “Stay there.”

The child obeys, giving Zephyr a wide berth as she goes back to the dilapidated shuttle parked in the overhang. The ship is badly damaged. It’s clear that he has been trying to repair it to make his escape. Paz stays in the shadows, well out of sight, to watch what Zephyr does next. He pulls a set of cuffs out of his pouch and tosses them at the man’s feet.

“Put those on,” Zephyr says. “Behind your back.”

“Please, don’t hurt my daughter,” the twi’lek says. “She’s innocent in all of this. Please let her go.”

Paz can see Zephyr hesitate for only a millisecond, but he continues speaking.

“Put those on,” Zephyr says. “Behind your back. Please don’t make me do it for you.”

“Please don’t hurt her, she didn’t do anything. She’s innocent in all of this.”

“The bounty is for you, and you alone,” Zephyr says. “I have no quarrel with your child.”

The man starts to put the handcuffs on, wriggling his arms behind himself.

“What will you do with my girl?” he asks quietly. “She had nothing to do with this – please spare her – “

Zephyr motions for him to turn around. The man does as he is told. Zephyr approaches once the man’s arms are secured behind him. He pushes the man down onto a chair, facing away from them.

“If you fight, I _will_ kill you. If you comply, you stay alive, and they may let you work your debts off,” Zephyr says.

Judging by the fact that it was a local mob boss that had taken the bounty out on him, it was highly unlikely that they would let him live. But there was always a chance, if they felt particularly merciful.

“But my daughter,” the man pleads. “If I can’t protect her, they’ll take her, they’ll – “

He cuts himself off sharply, his head sagging. He knows exactly what would happen if they _weren’t_ feeling merciful.

“Please let me protect my child,” he says. “Please, _please._ I’ll stay in town, just until she’s old enough to – “

A log on the fire crackles and collapses, sending up a shower of sparks, cutting his pleas off.

“Stop talking,” Zephyr says. He hesitates for another moment. “There’s a convent in Amiren. That’s the best I can do for your kid.”

The man’s head jerks up.

“You – you won’t – you won’t sell her?” he croaks out.

“I am a bounty hunter, not a slaver,” Zephyr says. “Will you come quietly?”

“I’ll come quietly. Please…just don’t hurt her.”

“Alright,” Zephyr says. “Tell her to grab her things.”

The man calls out in his language. After a few minutes, the little girl comes out with a satchel and a stuffed animal in her arms.

“Let me see your bag, please,” Zephyr says to the child.

She hands it over silently, watching him with frightened, dark eyes. He looks through it. Then he scans it and hands it back to her.

“We are leaving now,” Zephyr says.

Paz takes that as his cue to bring the bike with the bed over. The man jumps, startled at his sudden appearance. Zephyr lifts the man into the back. Then he helps the child settle in next to him. Zephyr hands the girl the ragged blanket he had used as a sun shield earlier in the day. Zephyr then kicks dirt over the flames until it is well-buried, covering their tracks.

He hops into the driver’s seat and turns the bike on. Paz drives behind Zephyr, keeping an eye on the bounty. He and his daughter spend their last few hours together, her head tucked under his chin. They get back to the flatlands just as the sun is rising. As they load the bikes and quarry into the ship, the sun finally peeks over the horizon, blazing golden fingers of sunlight reaching across the sky to chase away the nighttime chill.

Zephyr restrains the bounty against the ladder, far from anything that could be used to free himself or hurt them. The child settles in next to her father, still wrapped in the ragged blanket. The child cowers in front of them, clearly expecting them to hurt her. Paz has to admit that it hurts to see a child so afraid of him, but it cannot be helped. This is their line of work, after all.

“I’ll go start the ship,” Paz says. “You can deal with these two.”

Paz heads up to the cockpit and starts the ship up, typing in the coordinates for Amiren. He sets it to autopilot and peers down the ladder, watching over his young charge. The kid is putting supplies away when the child speaks up.

“Why are you taking my daddy away from me?” she asks.

Zephyr drops the tool bag in his hands. He hesitates. Paz watches, wondering what Zephyr will do.

“I am taking your father back into town,” Zephyr says, as he bends over to pick up the bag. “He has business to take care of.”

“Will I see my daddy again?” she presses.

“I don’t know,” Zephyr says.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Amiren,” Zephyr says. “There’s a convent there. The priestesses there will look after you.”

“But I want to stay with my daddy,” she says.

“Baby, hush,” the man says. “If what he says is true, you’ll be safe. You’ll have friends to play with.”

“But I – “

“Hush,” the man says. “Please. Don’t argue.”

The girl goes silent, her head resting against her father’s shoulder. She starts whimpering for food a moment later. Zephyr takes the few morsels out of her bag and plates them for her. Then he gives her his apple juice. Paz leans back, considering the young man’s behavior. He clearly feels guilty. Maybe he’s not ready to go out on his own consistently. Zephyr finishes cleaning the bikes and supplies just as the ship lands in Amiren, just outside of the convent. Paz climbs down as the ramp is lowered. Zephyr is standing at the top of the ramp. He looks up at him. Paz folds his arms under his chest.

“You made the decision to bring her here,” Paz says calmly. “Finish the job.”

“Come on, kid,” Zephyr says, offering his hand to her.

“Go,” the man says to his daughter.

“Daddy,” the girl whines. “I don’t wanna go – “

“Baby, please _go_ ,” the man says. “I love you.”

“I love you, daddy,” the girl says, hugging him. “I’ll miss you. Come pick me up as soon as you can, okay?”

The man nods, his chest heaving.

“I’ll come as quick as I can,” he says.

The girl slips her hand into Zephyr’s much larger one. He heads down the ramp and toward the convent, where a pair of priestesses are waiting at the gate. It takes nearly twenty minutes, but they eventually take the girl in. The bounty keeps watching.

“Are they going to kill me?” he asks quietly.

Paz looks down at the man.

“How much debt are you in?” Paz asks casually.

“Ten thousand credits,” the man says.

Paz shrugs. With a few years of hard work, he might be able to pay it off. If they felt merciful.

“Could go either way,” Paz responds. “If I were you, I’d kiss ass. Don’t mention your kid, though. It won’t end well for either of you.”

He nods, his head sagging. Zephyr returns and raises the ramp. From there, Paz takes over. It is, of course, still his job, and he needs to get to work on the second one. He pulls a bag over the bounty’s head and tightens the cuffs a bit. Paz finds Zephyr in the cockpit. He has his bucket in his lap and his hands pressed up against his face. He looks exhausted.

“What’s wrong?” Paz asks.

“How can anyone do this?” Zephyr asks, his voice cracking. “That girl – she was lucky that – I – “

He falls silent, shaking his head. Paz decides to dispense a little tough love, as the other hunters call it. He can’t sugarcoat things for Zephyr for much longer, no matter how much he wants to protect him.

“You’re right. She is lucky,” Paz says. “She’s lucky that we were the ones who picked up the puck and not anyone else. She’s lucky that there was a convent nearby to take her in where men can’t get to her. She’s lucky that she’s going to spend the rest of her life learning a skill to support herself. She’s lucky, and so are you.”

Zephyr’s head shoots up.

“It won’t always be this easy,” Paz says. “You were lucky to have a bounty that said dead or alive. You were lucky that he didn’t fight back and give you no other choice. You were lucky that he did everything you told him to do. You were lucky that you didn’t have to kill him in front of his child.”

“Does…does this get easier?” Zephyr asks quietly, staring at the landscape zipping by in a blur.

“No,” Paz says. “It never gets easier. You’ll be picking up runaway slaves. Victims of trafficking. The elderly. The infirmed. The innocent. Maybe, you’ll get stuck with a bounty on a child. But in the end, you have a job to do. Provide for your own family.”

Zephyr remains silent. Paz sighs quietly and thinks back. He had picked up his first bounty at _thirteen_. He had started developing early, so he was the size of an average adult human male by then. Lanky, a bit pudgy around the middle, but still tall. He had fooled his way into the guild by messing with his vocal modulator a bit, deepening it until he could pass off as a grown man.

He had tried to keep the bounty alive, but she fought him tooth and nail, pulling a blaster on him. Paz had no other option then but to shoot back. Her shot had missed from her shaking hands. His had not. Yet even now, nearly thirty years later, he can still remember the look on her face as she bled out on the floor in front of him.

“The day you stop hearing that voice in the back of your head…that’s when you have a problem. That’s when you’ve lost your way,” he says. “We can’t ask questions about why there’s a bounty out on their heads. The only thing we can do is treat them – and any innocent bystanders – with dignity until we can get them back to where they need to go.”

Zephyr exhales shakily and nods.

“Remember what I told you,” Paz says. “Keep your head level and your heart clear.”

He remains silent for nearly a minute.

“Can…can you take the lead on the next one, please?” he croaks out.

“I was planning on it,” Paz says. “Keep an eye on the controls. I’ll be taking care of the bounty we have right now.”

“Aye, Alor’ad,” Zephyr says, but it lacks its usual enthusiasm.

He picks the man up and hauls him toward the back. When he sees the carbonite freezer, he closes his eyes and resigns himself to his fate. He remains quiet and complacent, something Paz is silently grateful for. Zephyr is taking this much harder than he had expected. The last thing he wants to do is exacerbate his feelings of guilt and sorrow.

“Can I ask you a question?” the bounty asks, as Paz pushes him toward the compartment.

“Go ahead,” Paz says, readying himself for any one of the many vile accusations that have been thrown at him over the years. He makes another mental note to try and prepare Zephyr for the verbal things people will throw at him in fear and rage.

“The young one,” the bounty says. “Is he your son?”

His hand freezes over the controls.

“Why do you ask that?” Paz asks, reaching over him to start the machine.

The bounty steps into the compartment.

“The way you talk to him…well, I was just curious,” he says. Then, as Paz reaches for the button. “Tell him thanks. For looking out for my Iris. F-for…not hurting her.”

Paz nods.

“Will do,” he says.

The man barely twitches as the cycle begins, the ice-cold gasses working quickly on his flesh to immobilize him. Paz stays there until the machine beeps. Then he moves the block into storage. On a whim, Paz looks up at the bounty’s face. For the first time in his life, he does not see a face contorted in sadness or rage. Instead, he sees a small smile on his face.

Paz silently slides it into the storage compartment, an unsettling feeling taking root in his stomach.

* * *

Fortunately, the second bounty goes easily with him in the lead. Paz lets Zephyr handle the fistfight, which he does with ease, making it quick for the bounty. Zephyr then ties the bounty up and checks their surroundings for things they may be able to take with them. After scavenging some ammunition, they return to Somara. Guildmaster Soros’s cronies take the bounties and they enter the bar. Zephyr remains silent.

“That was much faster than usual,” she says by way of greeting. “How’d Verdesly do?”

Paz doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“He did good,” Paz says. “Need to train him to stop saying please to the bounties, though.”

Guildmaster Soros just laughs in response.

“What a weird kid you are,” she says to Zephyr, who shifts next to him. “Did you like your juice?”

“I didn’t get a chance to drink it,” he responds quietly.

She hums in response. She’s known Paz for long enough to know when a Mandalorian is trying to evade a question. Fortunately, she doesn’t care enough to ask. She pulls another selection of pucks out of her bag.

“Well, since Big Blue says you did good as an assistant, I’ll let you take your first bounty,” she says.

She spreads the pucks out in front of him.

“Take your pick,” she says. “They’re all pretty small.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Zephyr says.

“Don’t call me ma’am,” she says immediately.

He starts going through the pucks, looking at the rates and any notes that are included with them. Paz notes that he’s sorting them. He picks up the last one and freezes as he stares at the hologram.

“That one?” Guildmaster Soros asks, frowning. “You won’t be getting much. Barely enough to fill your bikes.”

“I’ll take it,” Zephyr whispers.

“Alright,” Guildmaster Soros says with a shrug. “Your choice. But this will barely help your standing here.”

“I’ll take this one, please,” Zephyr says.

“There’s nothing special about this guy,” Guildmaster Soros continues as she puts the rest of the pucks away. “Eryl apparently missed a delivery deadline a few weeks ago. He hasn’t come into town for weeks now. Old Man Noll’s pissed off to the point where he paid the entire placement fee, just to kick his ass in public. Strange world we live in, huh?”

Paz looks down at the hologram rotating above the puck. Nothing remarkable. He is just an average, middle-aged human male. Paz wonders if Noll was just making an example of this idiot, considering the reward was less than the amount needed to register the bounty in the first place. It was also on the verge of expiring. Old Man Noll will be _losing_ money if Zephyr gets the bounty in.

“You can rough him up, but Noll wants him alive,” Guildmaster Soros says. “No known associates. Eryl just sort of turned up a few years ago. He does a lot of hard labor around town. Disappears a lot, but no one knows where he goes off to. He does live in a dump outside of town, so…good luck!”

Paz looks at Zephyr, who is staring down at the puck. Paz wonders if he’s starting to get nervous about finally being fully responsible for taking someone in, possibly taking their life in the process. Paz looks back at Guildmaster Soros.

“What, you scared or something?” Guildmaster Soros asks, lifting a brow at Zephyr. “He’s small fry. Perfect for a wee baby Mandalorian like you. If Big Blue’s the one who trained you, you can take this guy.”

Zephyr clears his throat.

“Yeah,” Zephyr manages to get out. “Small fry.”

Paz immediately knows in his gut that something is off about this bounty. The young man nods and Paz takes that as his cue to get out of the booth. He turns back to the woman, who has not moved.

“Thank you for the opportunity, Guildmaster Soros,” Zephyr says to her. “I really appreciate it.”

Her brow goes up. She clearly isn’t used to being thanked for giving out pucks.

“No problem, kid,” she says. “Don’t fuck it up, or I’ll knock Big Blue down in the rankings.”

Paz snorts in response. She could _try_ , but they both know her branch can’t afford to lose him. They’d take a serious hit in their numbers, and she might even lose her appointment here. Zephyr nods and stiffly leads the way out of the bar, his stride quick and determined. Paz takes a moment to watch him. Zephyr is twitchy, almost frightened, his hands working nervously at the controls on the bike.

“So, you know where you’re going to look?” Paz asks Zephyr.

“Yeah,” Zephyr says. “I think I know where to start.”

“Alright,” Paz says. “Lead the way.”

Paz can’t shake the weird feeling in his gut as Zephyr takes the reigns, striding toward the rental place they had passed by on the way in. He remains out of the way as Zephyr negotiates to extend their contract for the bike for three days. Paz remains silent as he follows Zephyr, watching how tense his entire body is. Paz wonders if it’s nerves, but that feeling in his gut tells him that it’s something else that is making him so jittery. They make it back to the ship, where Zephyr lingers outside. He looks out over the plains, scanning the rock cliffs.

“Zephyr, you alright?” Paz asks.

“I’m fine,” he responds shortly. “Please…just let me take care of this, alright?”

Paz slowly turns his head.

“Zephyr, what aren’t you telling me?” Paz asks.

“Paz, I need you to trust me,” Zephyr says. “Please.”

Paz exhales. He does _not_ like being kept in the dark, but he nods. Zephyr has matured greatly over the past three years. He trusts that the young man’s judgment is sound.

“Alright,” Paz says. “I’ll stay out of the way and let you handle this.”

“Thank you,” Zephyr says.

It takes two hours for them to find the bounty’s hiding place. Paz feels his nose crinkle up in disgust as he looks around the narrow, cluttered clearing. There are mounds of rotting garbage piled in the clearing – rusted out parts, bags of rotting waste, and broken glass bottles. A narrow path through the filth leads to a dilapidated wooden door. Zephyr seems to hesitate, looking at the filth surrounding him. They hear the faint sounds of coughing from inside the bounty’s place.

Zephyr goes in slowly, taking a few moments to check his surroundings. Paz follows a few moments later, bracing himself against what awaits them inside. To his immense surprise, the cave is impeccable, a stark contrast to the disaster that sits outside. Zephyr looks around briefly before heading toward the faint light spilling out from behind a curtain. The only trash here is a plastic crate filled with empty food containers, all neatly washed and collapsed for efficient storage.

The coughing grows more violent. Paz peers into the sleeping area. The room was a crack in the wall at some point, with a narrow bedframe pressed up against the far wall and a clothing rod suspended at the narrowest end. The clothing is all worn and patched, yet clean and neatly arranged. The feeling in his gut worsens. Their target is laying on their side, back toward them, looking at a hologram of something. Zephyr stands there for several moments before reaching up to remove his helmet. Before Paz can ask him what the _hell_ he is thinking, he speaks.

“ _Su cuy’gar_ ,” he says, in a broken voice that makes Paz’s heart wrench.

The quarry bolts up, yanking a knife out from under his pillow. Zephyr doesn’t budge. The man stares at Zephyr for several moments, his bloodshot eyes unfocused. Judging by the swelling of his extremities and his abdomen, the man is in the late stages of liver failure. The jaundiced skin on his arms is mottled and bruised. On one arm, Paz can see that his skin has split open, and has started turning yellow-green with infection.

The man stares up at Zephyr for several moments, confusion decorating his face. Old scars criss-cross his face, and one eye is faded to grey with blindness. Then he starts to shake his head, a great rasping noise escaping his chest. Even his lungs are filled with fluid. Paz is no medical professional, but even he can tell that their target does not have long left. He would be lucky to make it back to town alive at this point.

“I’m fuckin’ hallucinating again,” he rasps, in a voice that is all too familiar to Paz.

_No_ , Paz thinks to himself. _It can’t be._

“You are not,” Zephyr says quietly, calmly, coming forward another step. He falls to his knees next to the bed, reaching for the man’s hand.

“Not again,” he says, covering his eyes. “Not again, c-can’t fucking do this again…let me suffer _alone_. Let me fucking _die_ already.”

Zephyr takes his gloves off. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his hands around the man’s own purple digits. The target inhales sharply, his hand jerking in Zephyr’s grasp.

“ _Buir_ ,” Zephyr says quietly, kneeling next to him. “It’s me, Zeph.”

“Zeph?” Liam croaks out, lifting his free hand to Zephyr’s face. “How the fuck did you find me? I made sure no one – no one could find me.”

“On a hunt,” Zephyr says softly.

Liam smiles.

“I spent all these years wishing I could see your face again, Zeph,” Liam says. “And here you are. You look good in armor, kid. Really suits you.”

“What happened?” Zephyr asks, his breath hitching in his throat, a choked sob escaping him.

“Don’t you cry,” Liam responds. “I’m not-not worth it, kid. Th-this your first hunt?” At his nod, Liam continues. “Paz here?”

Zephyr nods again. Paz steps forward into the dim light.

“Is it just me, or have you gained weight?” Liam rasps out, his head dropping onto the pillow. Paz grunts in response. He’s starting to get pissed off. He wants to know what is going on and how he survived, considering Zephyr is currently wearing his bucket. His body had never been found. Did he run like a coward? Leave behind his oath? Paz carefully restrains himself only because Zephyr is present.

Liam struggles to sit up. Zephyr helps him up with one hand at his shoulder. He rummages for something at his side and pulls a battered datapad into view.

“I wanted to send a message,” Liam said. “I wanted to explain…to you and to your mum. Explain what happened. But I couldn’t do it.”

“Why? What happened?” Zephyr pleads.

“On Nevarro…some lucky fuck got the drop on me. Tossed a grenade at me, but I managed to dive out of the way. Next thing I knew, they were dragging me out from under the rubble,” Liam says, his lips set in a wry smile. “Took my bucket as a trophy. I killed them just as your mum came looking for me.”

Paz closes his eyes. He _hadn’t_ run like a coward. _Shit_.

“Why didn’t you come back?” Zephyr asks hoarsely, his voice nearly hysterical. “I thought you were _dead_ , I thought – I thought that – when mum couldn’t find your body – “

“Zeph,” Liam says. “You were there for the vote. You know that we broke our oaths. If anyone from the Tribe found out I _lost_ my bucket in combat…”

He trails off with a grimace.

“Mum wouldn’t have left you,” Zephyr whispers. “She would have – _we_ would have – “

“I know,” Liam says quietly. “I know how stubborn she is, Zeph.”

“But…”

“After the shit I’ve done, my status as a Mandalorian is…well, it’s questionable, even under the best of circumstances,” Liam says in a shaky voice, his eyes filling with tears. “We promised each other that we would do whatever it took to keep you safe, Zeph. No matter what it took.”

“W-why didn’t you leave a me-message?” Zephyr asks, “Why didn’t you say _goodbye_?”

“If it became known I was still alive, and that I had lost my bucket a second time, I would’ve been declared dar’manda by the Tribe,” Liam says quietly. “I would have been exiled. And your mum’s identity would be known by an outsider, an aruetii. Armorer isn’t a cruel dictator. She would never just declare someone dar’manda, or exile them, not without cause...but…there can’t be leniency a second time. _Especially_ not for an outsider who has shamed himself _twice_.”

“But you _aren’t_ dar’manda,” Zephyr insists, “You-you walked the path, didn’t you?”

Liam sighs, a small, sad smile crossing his face.

“Didn’t you?” Zephyr pleads. “You followed the Resol’nare, right?”

“I tried,” Liam says. “I tried my best, even when I was gone. So, maybe there’s still hope for me, Zeph. Maybe I’m not dar’manda...maybe I’ll get to see you in the Manda one day.”

Liam clasps both hands around Zephyr’s hand.

“We made a promise to each other to do whatever it took to keep you safe,” Liam says gently. “Your mum lost her husband, but she kept her family and regained her honor in the process. I made the choice to die that day, Zeph, so she could continue raising you. Maybe she could remarry someone worthy of helping her do that.”

Liam smiles sadly at Zephyr, reaching up with one shaking hand to brush the hair out of his eyes.

“Now that you’re here, I can see that she did a damn good job,” Liam says quietly. “How is she doing?”

Zephyr’s chin wobbles, He curls forward, and he starts to cry. A sharp, pained keening noise, like a wounded animal, escapes him. His entire body shakes with grief. Liam’s face falls.

“No,” he says quietly. He shakes his head, again and again. “No. Please tell me. Alor’ad, tell me it isn’t true.”

“She died less than a month later,” Paz says.

Armorer had told him what happened shortly after they had reunited. Armorer had been trying to drag an injured hunter out of the way. Zeli had taken a barrage of blaster fire meant for her, and she had been the first to fall.

“No,” Liam repeats. “No, it can’t be. They were only bounty hunters. She could have taken them all by herself. She – no – “

“Din pissed off a high ranking Imp. They sent a small reconnaissance group first. Armorer stayed behind with the older hunters to destroy the evidence of our numbers,” Paz says quietly. “They brought more troops the second time around. They repelled them, but we lost nearly everyone.”

Liam curls his hand around Zephyr’s head and pulls him in for an embrace, rocking him back and forth gently, soothing his sobbing child.

“Including Armorer, four survived,” Paz says quietly. “The others were confirmed dead as they collected the bodies. We did not find four members of the Tribe, including you. So, we hope the last three are trying to find their way home now.”

“Who?” Liam chokes out, “How many survived?”

“All the children as well as the hunters under the age of twenty-two.”

He goes through the list of known survivors and those who might still live. Of the thirty-six warriors over the age of twenty-two, only eleven were confirmed to survive, with the hope that there are three who are still trying to find their way home. The two men cling together in their sorrow. Paz feels his throat tighten as he watches Liam run his fingers through Zephyr’s hair, comforting him in the way that only a buir could.

“Will you come back with us?” Zephyr asks in a muffled voice.

“Zeph, I’m very sick,” Liam says softly.

“We have bacta,” Zephyr blurts out. “We-we can fix – “

Liam presses his hand to Zephyr’s cheek.

“I have malignant growths in my lungs, liver, kidneys, and brain,” Liam says. “The only reason I’m able to sit up right now is because of my painkillers.” He sniffles and wipes at his eyes before giving Zephyr a small smile. “Thank the maker you don’t have my shitty genes.”

Zephyr lets out a low sob and curls forward into his shoulder, “Buir, no...not again.”

Liam shushes him gently.

“I know we don’t have much time together,” Liam says. “But…could you tell me about what you’ve been doing the past few years?”

Paz retreats as Zephyr starts to talk. He sinks down onto a crate in the main room, staring with empty eyes at the dilapidated door. Everything Liam had said was true. The tribe would not have allowed him a second chance. There was a real chance that Zeli might have been exiled alongside him, with no way to restore her honor.

_Is_ Liam dar’manda? Paz can’t answer that question. He hasn’t lost his heritage and he hasn’t turned his back to their ways. Apparently, he’s tried his best to do what he can, though Paz does not know _what_ he could have done alone without a Tribe to support him. He gave up his wife, his honor, his _right to call himself Mandalorian_ , all in the hopes of ensuring that Zeli could stay behind and raise their child with the Tribe.

Paz presses his face into his hands. His heart aches, filled to the brim with a maelstrom of emotions, but he has no way to let them out, nor does he want to. He cannot imagine what Zephyr is going through right now. He needs to keep it together. Figure out what they are going to do once Liam goes on to march. How they are going to explain this to the guild. He does not know how long he sits there, coming up with plans and discarding them immediately when he realizes they are impractical. The only thing he can come up with is that they will burn his body. Trash the place and make it look like he died in squalor to avoid arousing suspicion.

“Paz?” comes a small voice.

“Yeah, kid?” he asks, rising to his feet.

“Buir wants to talk to you,” Zephyr says. “For just a few minutes. _Pl-please._ ”

“Alright,” Paz says.

He cannot find it in himself to deny a dying man the opportunity to apologize. Zephyr comes to take his place on the crate. Paz squeezes his shoulder as he strides by to the doorway. Liam is leaning against the wall, the threadbare blanket spread across his legs. The rag he has been coughing into is stained red with blood. His eyes are hazy and unfocused, meaning the pain meds are wearing off.

“Vizsla,” he says hoarsely.

“Basann,” Paz returns. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Liam says. “For being such a complete shithead to you. I know what we did to you was wrong. It-it was beyond…beyond _wrong._ It was cruel. There…there isn’t a day that goes by where I wish I could…could go back. And stop myself from making a pass at her. Stop myself from stabbing you in the back like that.”

Paz remains silent.

“She never forgave herself,” Liam says. “She never thought she could be worthy of being forgiven for what we did. I don’t know if she ever had the chance to apologize…to show you her remorse. But…I am sorry for…for what we did to you. The way we hurt you and betrayed you like that. You were a brother to me, Paz, and…Maker, I’m so, so _sorry_.”

Paz exhales.

“What is in the past should remain there. I thought she deserved to suffer for as long as she lived. I never let myself tell her that I forgave her.”

_And that’s what ended up happening,_ he thinks to himself. She died thinking he still hated her, even ten years after the fact. He stopped hating her, stopped wishing harm upon her. Hell, even now, Paz Vizsla still _loves_ Zeli Nyres Basann, in a strange _,_ twisted way.

His love for Zeli is the kind of love and yearning for the marriage that could have been, the family they could have made and found together; it is a longing for the sweet familiarity of the eight years they had so tenderly cultivated before it was torn away, leaving behind a chasm that tore him open clear to his soul and nearly destroyed him. It is a kind of bittersweet melancholy where he had lain awake for months afterwards, asking himself: _why? What did I do to hurt her? To drive her away? To make her do this_? It is the love that left its scars on his heart, wounds that had healed yet occasionally ache, reminding him of what he has endured.

Liam nods, a sad smile crossing his face.

“I understand,” Liam says quietly. “We hurt you, Paz. There’s nothing I can ever say. _Ever do_. To convey just how...I…I am sorry, Paz. I truly am.”

“I can’t tell you that it’s okay, or that I would ever accept you as a friend again,” Paz rumbles quietly. “But I forgave the two of you a long time ago. I don’t hate you. I certainly don’t wish you ill any longer.”

The other man exhales shakily as he nods. He starts to choke and starts coughing into the blood soaked rag.

“Thank you,” Liam says. “For telling me that. I know forgiveness isn’t for the wrong-doer, th-that it’s for _you_ , the one who was wronged. But I’m glad to know that you no longer hate us.”

Paz nods once more. He has nothing else to say to the broken, dying man in front of him. He can’t bring himself to be cruel to Liam. The bitter hatred had dissipated a long time ago. Now, the only thing he feels right now is sadness, and mostly only for Zephyr.

“I know you must think me a coward,” Liam begins to say.

“I understand why you did what you did,” Paz says. “If you had come back, I would have had no problems kicking your visor in. You…you did what you thought would protect the two of them. She died protecting the Tribe and your son. She died with honor. That is what we all wish to have in the end.”

“I spent the past few years hunting,” Liam says, not meeting his eyes. “Collecting offerings. Hoping that I’d be able to send a message out and have one of you come pick up what I couldn’t bring back.”

Paz nods once in understanding. Once a Mandalorian experiences their first hunt, they will not stop providing, not until their dying day.

“Everything I brought back is in my storage locker,” Liam says. “It’s in the western district. Here’s what you will need to access it.”

Paz accepts the datapad. He glances at it, taking note of the passwords. Liam starts to cough again.

“How bad is it?” Paz asks. “There might be something we can do to ease your pain.”

Liam holds up a transparent plastic container. Paz can see many small, empty bottles in it, as well as a hypospray. Morphine. Easy to get hold of, easy to overdose, and probably the quietest way for him to end his suffering.

“Was planning on finalizing everything tonight,” Liam says, to avoid alerting Zephyr of his intentions. “Would you be willing to burn - ?”

“Yeah,” Paz says. “One more question. Why is there a bounty on you?”

“Forgot to return some tools to Old Man Noll,” Liam says with a quiet laugh. “By the time I remembered, I was too weak to take them back.”

“I’ll take ‘em back for you,” Paz says. “I’ll tell them that you left a note or something.”

“Thank you,” Liam says. “The password is Zephyr, of course.”

Paz looks to him one more time.

“Liam…”

His head jerks up, as if he’s startled to hear his own name from him.

“You’ve done what you could to keep Zephyr safe,” Paz says. “You’ll have died with your honor, even if you still believe you are dar’manda.”

With that, Paz takes a step back, giving Liam some space. He calls Zephyr back into the room and goes to start moving things. He finds the tools that Liam had been talking about and scribbles a note on a scrap of paper, apologizing for not returning the tools and explaining his diagnosis. Then he puts the massive box in the back of the bike and covers it with a tarp. Paz starts carrying bags of trash into the tidy cave, making it look like Liam had died an alcoholic, surrounded by filth. It would give people a reason to _not_ investigate his death, his background.

Then he starts building a funeral pyre, soaking the wood and brush with the spare can of fuel to ensure his body burns completely. By the time night has fallen, Liam’s last dose of morphine has worn off, and he is shaking in agony. Zephyr steps away briefly to go get some water for them to drink. Liam takes the opportunity.

“Oya, Alor’ad,” he says with a weak grin.

“Oya,” Paz returns quietly. “Ret'urcye mhi.”

Liam picks up the hypospray and injects himself with it, turning onto his side with a deep, shuddering groan.

“Zephyr,” Paz calls out, calling the young man back.

Paz takes the medkit and hypospray just as Zephyr steps into the room, carrying the water pack. He sinks back down next to the bed. Liam clumsily grasps his hand. The morphine has already made its way into his brain. Soon, he will be asleep, and he will go on to march with his wife in peace.

“I love you, son,” he says.

“Please don’t go, buir,” Zephyr pleads in a whisper. “Stay with me.”

“Can’t, ad’ika. I love you,” he slurs. “Love you, Zeph.”

“I love you, too, buir,” Zephyr whispers brokenly. “I love you too.”

As Zephyr bows his head and starts to sob once more, Paz silently exits the room. He drops the med kit into the pyre. Zephyr doesn’t need to know his father committed suicide. When Liam’s eyes close, Paz starts to pile up trash in the corners of the bedroom, making it look like he had lived and died in filth to avoid arousing suspicion. Then Paz presses his fingers to Liam’s neck. No pulse. His skin is already beginning to cool. He then presses his hand to Zephyr’s back.

“Kid, it’s time to go,” he says, unable to keep his voice from breaking.

“No,” Zephyr says, his swollen eyes filling with tears. “Please no.”

He chokes up.

“Not my buir,” he whispers. “Please don’t take him.”

“Zephyr, listen to me,” Paz says gently, firmly. “We _have_ to go. The longer we stay, the more likely it is that someone will come investigate. We need to burn your buir’s body and pick up his offerings.”

“But – “

“Zeph,” Paz says. “We will mourn later. But we need to get this job done and honor his last wishes. We can tell the Tribe he honored us all, even when he was separated from us. You understand?”

“Yes,” Zephyr says. “Get the…get the job done. Honor buir’s wishes. Take care of the Tribe.”

Paz nods and claps him on the shoulder. After one more scan, Paz confirms that Liam is deceased. Then he and Zephyr wrap his body in the sheets and tie them firmly. Paz makes to pick him up, but Zephyr steps in.

“I…I want to,” he stammers out.

Paz lets the young man pick up his buir. Even with how frail he had been at the time of his departure, Zephyr staggers under the weight, yet he stubbornly makes his way out through the garbage. He lowers the bundle onto the pyre gently, almost deferentially, cradling his head.

He clings for a few moments before taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then he takes a step back. Paz goes back and takes the flight suits off the clothes rod. Then he makes one last pass through the cave to ensure no one will ever know that there was ever a Mandalorian living here.

Outside, he finds Zephyr standing there. He carefully folds the suits up into a pillow. Zephyr holds Liam’s head up and Paz places it under his head. Zephyr brushes his hand against his father’s forehead one last time, whispering a broken goodbye.

Lifting his flamethrower, he looks to his young friend. He nods. They light their flamethrowers together and set the the pyre alight. They keep vigil over the flames, adding more wood on occasion, until only charred bone remains. When the fire burns out, the night is still and quiet, save for Zephyr’s quiet sniffling. Along the western horizon, Paz can see the sky lightening, turning a murky shade of grey.

Shit, it’s already morning.

Paz pulls him into a tight embrace, stroking his hair back. He holds the young man, murmuring quiet, soothing things until he stops shaking. When he finally draws back, Paz can see that his face is mottled, streaked with tears and snot.

“Ready?” Paz asks gruffly.

He nods wordlessly. As they settle on the bikes, Zephyr pauses, staring down at his helmet. A gentle breeze from the west ruffles his hair, much like playful fingers would, and Zephyr exhales.

“I…I got to say goodbye to one of my buire,” Zephyr says, giving him a wan, brittle smile. “I will be okay, Paz. I’ll be okay.”

Paz nods as Zephyr lifts his helmet and puts it on again. Together, the two of them turn away from the clearing, the smell of smoke dissipating as they get further away until only the memory of it lingers in his thoughts.

* * *

Paz almost sends Zephyr back to the ship but decides against it. Too suspicious to have the responsible hunter disappear. He messages Guildmaster Soros and asks her to bring Old Man Noll to the front of the bar. She responds in the positive and tells him that Noll will be waiting. As they come into view, Noll hobbles toward them on his cane.

“Where the fuck is he?” Old Man Noll barks. Then to him, “What, did you scare him off?”

“He died at some point,” Paz says bluntly, carefully choosing his words to avoid lying. “Found these in the cave.”

He pulls the tarp off the back of the bike and Old Man Noll grumbles.

“Shoulda known he was going to keep ‘em,” he says moodily. “Should have never hired his ass.”

“This note was left for you,” Paz says, handing him the rumpled piece of paper.

“Note? I can’t see for shit,” Noll says sharply. “Read it to me. You’ve got better eyes than I do.” Then he gives him a narrowed look. “Well, at least I assume you have eyes under there.”

Paz rolls said eyes and unfolds the paper.

“To whomever finds this note,” Paz reads. “This crate of tools is property of Old Man Noll in town. I forgot to return them in a timely fashion. By the time I remembered I still had them in my possession, the cancer had spread too far, and I was too weak to return his property. Thank you, Eryl.”

Old Man Noll’s face falls.

“He…he was sick?” he asks. “The little shit was sick and he never told me? I could have sent a doctor for the idiot, I could have helped him.”

“Looks like it,” Paz says. “So, do you want the tools, or no?”

“Where’s his body?” Noll asks. “I...I’d like to bury him. Properly.”

“Burned it,” Paz says.

“You burned it?” Noll asks, a frown crossing his face.

“It was in an…unstable…condition,” Paz says delicately, to avoid upsetting Zephyr. “I sure as hell wasn’t going to try and load it into the back of the bike.”

“Shit,” Noll says. “ _Shit_.”

He presses his face into his hands.

“Thought he was trying to cheat me,” Noll says. “I just wanted to whack him a few times with my cane, put a few bruises on ‘im. Didn’t think he was… _sick_. He was so young. He did so much work around the farm...”

Paz tightens his jaw.

“Do you want the tools, or no?” he repeats.

“Yeah, I’ll take them,” Noll says. “Could I trouble you to take them to my shop? I’ll add a little extra for the inconvenience.”

“Yeah, sure,” Paz says. “Kid, you and Noll go talk to Guildmaster Soros and get the bounty closed out. Be sure you collect your pay.”

Zephyr nods. Paz makes it as quick as he can. He doesn’t know how well Zephyr is holding it all together right now, but he doesn’t want the young man in a vulnerable position. By the time he gets back, Zephyr is sitting in the booth, and Guildmaster Soros is watching him with sharp eyes. Paz joins them.

“So, unstable condition?” she asks pointedly.

“I’m not bringing back a corpse,” Paz says flatly. “And the kid could barely grab the tools.”

Still not a lie.

“Mmm,” she hums, clearly not believing him. Zephyr has another carton of apple juice in front of him. It looks empty. He must be parched by now. Paz can’t remember when they last drank. She marks the bounty as closed and hands Zephyr his pay. It isn’t much – just enough to fill up the bikes outside.

“Congrats, Verdesly,” she says. “You’re a bounty hunter now. Good luck in your future endeavors.”

“Thanks,” Zephyr says a bit hoarsely. “I will do my best.”

He finishes his juice. Crumpling the carton up, he hands it to the droid with a polite ‘thank you’ and fidgets with his napkin. Paz collects the pay for his own bounties, and they leave. From there, they go to the storage building and let themselves using in the codes Liam had left for them. It only takes a few minutes to load the crates and boxes into the Desert Lark. They drop off the bikes and return to the ship, where they find Guildmaster Soros waiting for them. She is wearing plain clothes, indicating she is not on official business.

“What aren’t you telling me about Eryl?” she asks casually, her arms folded across her chest.

“The job was done,” Zephyr says. “Mr. Noll got his property back.”

She gives him a long, lingering look. She pushes off the hull and adjusts her cap.

“Rule three of being a bounty hunter: don’t ever take a bounty if you know the target,” she says at long last. “I’ll let it slide one time, Verdesly, but I will be keeping a very close watch on you from now on. You lie to me again, I swear I will make you regret it. Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says immediately.

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps irritably.

They wait until she is gone before getting back onto the ship. Paz does not want to reveal the cargo hold full of boxes and crates to an outsider.

“Go take a shower,” Paz says. “Take as long as you need. Then go get something to eat and go rest.”

“Alright,” Zephyr says, staggering toward the bathroom.

Paz gets the Desert Lark into the air. He sets course for home, setting the jump points randomly. He gives Zephyr an hour before he heads down to the refresher. He taps on the door.

“Do I need to come fish you out?” he asks gently.

“N-no. Just needed to be alone,” Zephyr responds.

“Alright,” Paz says.

Paz climbs up the ladder and into the cockpit, shutting the door behind himself with a quiet _click_. He sags against the door. His body is screaming for food and water, but he knows he will not be able to keep anything down. Before he can lock the door, he hears a small tap. Paz pulls it open, revealing Zephyr. He is standing there in only his pajamas, shivering and shaking.

“Can I sit with you?” he asks hoarsely.

“Yeah, of course,” Paz says, “What do you need, kid?”

“I – I – “

“Come here,” Paz says gently. “Come here, ad’ika.”

Sliding down onto the ground, Paz pulls Zephyr against him, stroking his hair, rubbing his back soothingly as he just sobs. The young man is hysterical, hands clamped tightly around his chest plate, much as he had done when he was just a child.

“It’s going to be alright,” Paz soothes, “I’m here, ad’ika.”

He holds Zephyr until his guttural cries fade into the occasional sob and cough. His body trembles occasionally as he tries to calm himself down.

“Please don’t leave me,” Zephyr whispers. “P-please don’t. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Paz rumbles gently, rubbing his back. “Shh, ad’ika. Shh. I’m here. I’m here.”

It takes nearly half an hour until Zephyr has calmed down enough to breathe, though he occasionally starts tearing up. Paz’s heart breaks cleanly in two. The kid’s been through the fucking wringer. From losing his biological family, to losing most of his Tribe, and then losing both buire. The kid has lost most of the people he has ever loved in just a few short years. He wishes there was something he could do for Zephyr, but there’s nothing he can do except to offer a sympathetic shoulder to cry on and to be the one bit of constancy he’s had in his short life.

“Come on, ad’ika,” Paz says, shifting him off his shoulder, “Let’s get you in bed. You need to rest.”

He clings to him for a few moments but eventually concedes. Paz heaves himself to his feet. Zephyr goes for the ladder, but Paz stops him. He ushers him into the captain’s quarters. He sinks down onto the bed without hesitation and curls up, his body wracked by the occasional tremor. Paz lowers himself to the ground, staying on the uncomfortable floor until the young man is asleep. Then he covers Zephyr with the blanket. He props the door open as he goes back to the cockpit. He sinks down into the chair. Glancing over at the darkened doorway, Paz exhales. He takes his bucket off and massages his temples, trying to soothe away the headache forming behind his eyes as he ponders the injustices of the galaxy.

Today, two children became orphans. Something that’s probably happening to hundreds of children across the stars - war, famine, illness - destroyers of families. Thieves of the innocent. Something that’s been happening since the dawn of time and will continue happening until the dusk of life.

One father was taken from an innocent child by an inability to pay back a debt.

Another father was lost a second time. The reunion had only lasted a few short hours. It wasn’t enough time - there would never be enough time - but more than far too many get in life.

Paz feels his bones ache in exhaustion, but he knows he will not find rest for a very long time. He sets course for home and skips the last two jumps. He just wants to collapse in his own bed and rest. Picking up the supplies can wait until later, when it doesn’t feel like his heart has been ripped out of his chest.

Wryly, he wonders what the Tribe will say when he comes home empty-handed. It’ll be the first time in twenty years that he has so miserably failed at a hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buir(e) – parent(s)  
> Resol’nare – The six tenets by which all Mandalorians abide.  
> Alor - Leader  
> Alor’ad - Captain  
> Shebs – Butt, ass, arse  
> Vod – brother, comrade, mate  
> Karyai – main gathering room of a Mandalorian household. Basically where everyone hands out to socialize.  
> Aruetii – outsider. Not an insult unless levied against a Mandalorian.  
> Dar’manda – a state of being Mandalorian. Someone who has lost their heritage, identity, and soul. Super bad thing for a Mandalorian.  
> Ad’ika – little one, son, daughter of any age, or informally toward adults to mean like lads or guys  
> Ret'urcye mhi - Maybe we’ll meet again.


	7. Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title:** Calm Before the Storm  
>  **Pairing:** Paz x F Reader (finally), mentions of Paz & various characters  
>  **Word Count:** ~10.1k  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Warnings:** References to illness, as well as the fear that someone might hurt themselves (but that’s as heavy as it gets), feelings, Paz With Children
> 
> The beautiful moodboard was done by @huliabitch over on Tumblr. ❤️  
> You can find her (and all of her work) here at huliabitch.tumblr.com.

* * *

Slouching in his chair, Paz stares out at the blue lights zipping by across the windows as they navigate the hyperspace lane. Exhaustion fills him down to the bone, yet he cannot find rest. When they come into range of the communication buoy, he sends a short message ahead to Doctor Shen and asks her to clear the hangar out. She does not ask questions.

In the half hour it takes to get home, Paz gets Zephyr’s things together – he grabs a spare set of clothes and does a quick spot-clean of his armor to get the worst of the filth off. After that, Paz returns to the cockpit and guides the ship into the hangar. The doors are shut and one of the people break off to leave, leaving behind Doctor Shen’s familiar white armor.

He opens the ramp from the cockpit and goes to check on Zephyr. His heart sinks as he steps into the room. The young man is sitting up, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, his glazed-over eyes staring blankly at the far wall. Paz kneels next to the bed, reaching out with a tentative hand. He places it gently onto his shoulder.

“Hey,” Paz says softly. “We’re back.”

Zephyr’s only response is a short nod.

“Doctor Shen is here,” he continues. “I want you to go sit with her for a bit while I deal with all this, alright?”

Another nod. Paz hands him the pile of clothes and sets the armor down next to him. Then he exits, turning the light on and shutting the door to give him privacy. At the bottom of the ladder, he finds Doctor Shen waiting.

“What happened?” Doctor Shen asks urgently.

“Something extremely traumatizing,” Paz says. “I need you to talk to him, just…I need to deal with this. I’m going to set up a cot for him in my room.”

Doctor Shen’s response is cut off by the sound of Zephyr’s feet hitting the top rung of the ladder.

“Hey, _vod_ ,” she says. “Let’s head to medical, and we can talk, alright?”

Zephyr turns to look at him. Paz nods encouragingly. Once Zephyr and Doctor Shen have disappeared, he turns his attention to the boxes and promptly decides it can be dealt with later. Right now, he needs to use his hands, to move and to not think. In the main hall, he finds Armorer waiting for him.

“What happened?” she asks as she falls into stride next to him.

“Can we talk somewhere more private?” he asks quietly.

“Yes, of course,” she says.

At his door, Paz types in the code, and lets Armorer in.

“What happened?” Armorer asks.

For the first time in his life, Paz is speechless. He turns to face her and leans his weight against the wall. He had tried to come up with a way to bring it up with Armorer, but now, he has forgotten everything he had wanted to say. He decides to just blurt it out. Well, there is no way to put this delicately, regardless.

“Liam didn’t die on Nevarro. He survived.”

The silence stretches on.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Paz says, his voice just above a whisper.

She understands the unspoken question.

“We never found his body,” Armorer says slowly. “Zeli looked for hours. When she brought back his helmet, I suspected he might have abandoned the Tribe. I did not want Zephyr to try and return to find his _buir_.”

He lets his head fall back against the wall with a dull _thunk_. One breath in, hold, and let it out slowly. His armor suddenly feels hot and itchy, suffocating him with its weight. His gut twists as he clears the emotion from his throat. Zephyr would have clawed his way back off the ship if he thought there was a chance his _buir_ survived.

“Liam…Liam told us a grenade knocked him out. He said he woke up to a group of bounty hunters taking his helmet off,” Paz says. “He killed them just as Zeli came looking for him.”

“Do you believe he spoke the truth?”

He does not need to consider the veracity of Liam’s claim - deep down, he knows Liam had spoken the truth.

“Yes.”

“He did not abandon the Tribe,” Armorer says. “However, he knew what would happen if he returned. Did he know Zeli would likely be exiled alongside him?”

Paz nods once. He can still see Liam lying on that narrow cot, sick and barely clinging to life. Regret at not having said goodbye to his wife. Self-loathing. _Fear_. Yet as soon as Zephyr had pressed their foreheads together, it had all dissipated, like a wisp of smoke in a breeze.

“It would not have been just your decision to exile him,” Paz says.

Armorer nods once in confirmation. Like before, it would have been a Tribe vote. Given how high tensions had risen, they would have exiled the two of them on the spot without even thinking it through. Without thinking of the possible ramifications of their decision. Armorer folds her arms under her chest plate, watching him intently. Paz can feel his hands shaking, the adrenaline starting to wear off with the lack of movement.

“Where is Liam now?” she asks, but her tone indicates she knows the answer to that question.

“He was dying when we found him,” Paz says, unable to keep the sorrow from his voice. “He had growths that spread to his vital organs. Beyond what he could afford to pay.”

Armorer nods once more.

“What can I do to help?” she asks.

“Liam hunted until he could not continue,” Paz responds. “We brought his final offering back. I would really appreciate your help in going through it.”

“Of course,” Armorer says. “What about Zephyr?”

“I am getting him set up in the spare room,” Paz says. “I just need to clear it out.”

“I will go get him a cot,” Armorer says. “Do you know his door code?”

“No,” Paz says. “But I can get it from him later.”

Armorer nods and disappears. He starts moving again, losing himself to the repetition of lifting boxes and carrying them into his bedroom, trying to stop himself from thinking. From _feeling_. When it is completely empty, he takes a moment to breathe. Center himself. Collect his thoughts. Plan the next step.

 _Be strong for Zephyr_ , he thinks to himself. _Be strong for Tribe. Be strong for those who cannot be._

Paz exits the spare room and glances out at the living space, which doubles as a workspace when he wants to be alone or needs to take his helmet off. Now, as he takes stock of the situation, the cold, harsh reality of the situation seems to sink in. Zephyr has always been such a gentle boy, always feeling deeply, always hurting when others hurt. He is still rash and impulsive, immature in some ways.

He also never had the best coping mechanisms growing up, even with Liam and Zeli’s guidance. He does not think that Zephyr might do something drastic, but Paz refuses to risk it. He unfolds another plastic crate. Balancing it on his hip, he goes from table to table, packing the various blasters and knives away. For the weapons that are still being rebuilt or cleaned, he removes the battery packs. He hides the firing mechanisms in a box and stuffs it behind linens in a cabinet.

In the kitchen, he starts pulling the narrow drawers open, tossing anything sharper than a spoon into the box. From there, he moves to the cabinets over the tiny heating unit. He has a modest collection of alcohol stored away. For a few seconds, he debates on whether to keep it, but then he remembers the bottles littering the clearing near Liam’s home. How many of those were used to self-medicate? To numb himself to the pain? Shaking his head, Paz reaches up and starts emptying the bottles into the sink, even the ones he has never cracked open before.

A tap at the door interrupts him.

“Come in,” he calls out.

Armorer comes in with a bag of linens in her arms. She is followed by Din and Terys. They roll the cot into the spare room and leave without a word. Paz checks the bathroom medkit, but he does not have any painkillers aside from a small packet of aspirin. Paz sends the door code to Zephyr and Doctor Shen, telling them to let themselves in if he is not back by the time they are finished. Once the bedroom door is locked, Armorer accompanies him back to the hangar. They stand in silence for several moments, looking at the boxes filling the cargo bay.

He reaches for the first battered crate and pries the lid off.

“Metal ingots,” Paz says automatically, lifting a bar of crude iron out of the box. “Looks like mostly iron and copper.”

He wheels it out to the main floor. From there, the two of them work quickly, going through the biggest crates first, sorting it into piles for easy moving and storage later. Liam had found several crates worth of raw metal for the Foundry. It was enough to keep their munitions cache stocked for nearly a year. In another crate, they find hard-to-get electrical components. The knives, blasters, ammunition, and explosives are moved off toward the end of the line. He can deal with it later. Much, much later.

They keep the chatter to a minimum as they sort through the smaller crates. It almost seems disrespectful to speak when dealing with a hunter’s final offering to the Tribe. The next few crates are filled with a variety of goods, ranging from rolls of leather to vacuum-sealed bags of spices and dried herbs. They are finally left with two wooden crates, both battered and worn. Paz grabs the crowbar and pries one open. The tool slips out of his fingers and clatters to the floor when he sees the armor within.

The cuirass is badly damaged, the paint worn away in some places and scorched in others. Near the _karta bes’kar,_ the metal has been torn open to reveal the innermost electronic components. The cuisses and bracers are in worse condition. They look like they had been repaired with temporary patches, the silvery marks crisscrossing every surface. He’d been in many fights, all without an armorer to repair his _beskar’gam_. How had he survived so long?

Underneath the mismatched set of shoulder pieces, he finds Liam’s original right pauldron. It looks nearly pristine, save for the violent gouges where Liam had pried off the clan signet. Finally, at the bottom of the box, Paz finds the clan signet. He reaches for the mangled piece of metal.

“Leave it,” Armorer says, her sharp tone stopping him.

“Armorer?” Paz asks, watching as she reaches into the box. She picks up the signet and runs her thumb along the edge. Then she pockets it with a quiet sigh.

“Liam severed himself from his clan,” Armorer says.

Paz has heard of clans disowning or exiling members, but never the reverse. His gut twists when he considers how desperate Liam must have been to avoid including anyone else in his shame.

“And the rest of his armor?” he dares to ask.

“I will store it with the utmost respect until Zephyr is ready to decide what will be done with it,” Armorer says.

The last box is much smaller, and in even worse condition. Paz almost dreads what he is going to find inside. He lifts the lid and inhales sharply. Row after row of _bes’kar_ ingots glitter up at him in the dull light. He picks one up. No Imp stamp, meaning it came from another source. Third-hand dealer? Battlefield scavengers? Armorer picks up a piece and turns it over in her hands. Then she raps it sharply against her bracer, causing the ingot to sing a familiar, sweet note.

“Pure _bes’kar_ ,” she confirms.

Paz picks up one of the heavier bags and opens it. Imperial credits. The next bag contains Calamari Flan. He goes through the satchels, pure ice filling his stomach at the small fortune Liam had sent back. For this kind of money, he had been taking some dangerous bounties, if not outright dealing with spice.

“He could have _bought_ a bacta tank with all this,” Paz says, shaking his head in denial. “Hell, he could have bought _ten_ …”

He trails off Armorer returns the ingot to the crate.

“I think that, in his sorrow, Liam truly believed that his death would redeem him in our eyes,” Armorer says softly. “That this – “ she gestures at the crates neatly organized out in the hangar “ – would make him worthy of our respect. Perhaps, even our forgiveness.”

Paz sits there for a moment, digesting her words. Even when they were young, Liam had always worried about the Tribe. He had always wondered if his offerings were enough to feed them and clothe them. He had always just _worried_ , more than what any sixteen-year-old should have worried in a lifetime.

“I will store the money with Liam’s armor,” she says. “I know Liam said that this is a Tribe offering, but I would like to give Zephyr the opportunity to decide if he will keep a portion for himself.”

As Liam’s only surviving child, Zephyr has the right to keep it all to himself. Paz doubted the young man would want any of the money. He likely would only want his father’s armor, perhaps a bit of the _bes’kar_ to put aside for his own children one day.

With this amount of money coming into the Tribe coffers, Paz knows he should be grateful. They will not need to worry about food or medical supplies for several years at least. Yet, he feels that pang in his chest _worsen_. Welcoming a Mandalorian warrior back into their ranks would have been a fortune to which no amount of money or _bes’kar_ could ever compare.

 _If only there had been time,_ Paz thinks to himself desperately, _time for tempers to cool. If only there had been more time._

Looking at the wealth surrounding them, Paz decides he would trade it all away in a heartbeat if it meant Zephyr could spend a few more hours with his _buir_.

He looks up as Armorer starts to leave.

“Armorer…”

She stops and looks to him.

“Is he…” Paz trails off. She watches. “Would Liam be considered… _dar’manda_?”

After a few moments, she speaks.

“Even with our strict interpretation of our oaths, we still show leniency to our members,” Armorer says. “Losing ones’ helmet does not make someone _dar’manda_. It is the willful abandonment of our heritage, our culture, and the _Resol’nare_ that renders one unfit to join in the Manda when we pass on.”

She looks at the crates littering the hangar.

“He gave up everything he knew and loved to ensure his child had a future with us. He hunted to provide for his Tribe to the very end, even when there was no guarantee his offerings would be accepted.”

She lets the silence linger.

“If you are asking _my opinion_ , Paz, then I would not have considered him _dar’manda_. He helped raise a warrior. He fought like one from the time he donned the helmet until he left us to go march,” Armorer says quietly. “He still had his soul, however much he had disappointed and shamed this Tribe. Would he have been welcomed back here with songs of glory? Certainly not. But with time, I think he could have restored his honor and earned our respect once more.”

Paz nods as an unexpected wave of relief fills him.

“Like many of us, he struggled to adhere to his path. He made terrible mistakes and he tried to rectify them in the only way he knew how – give all he had until the day he had nothing left to give. In the end, Liam was the only person who could decide if he was still a Mandalorian.”

Armorer tilts her head at him. Then she pushes the cart down the ramp. He watches as the little wheels clatter over the uneven seams in the concrete until she disappears. Paz sinks down onto the floor, one knee drawn up toward his chest, the other leg stretched out in front of him. He stares at the floor of the cargo bay, idly cataloguing all the little scraps of detritus that had fallen out of the boxes.

He _should_ be grateful for Liam’s dedication to the hunt. He _should_ be comforted that Liam and Zeli have reunited in the Manda. He _should_ be happy that Zephyr had the opportunity to say goodbye to both his _buire_. Right now, all he feels is tired and empty, like someone has wrung his entire body out like a wet cloth. Paz lets his head fall back.

No matter how hard he tries to find his inner peace, he cannot stop his thoughts from racing. Is Zephyr okay? Would the kid let him talk to Doctor Shen? Hell, does Zephyr even _want_ to stay with him? Shit. He probably should have asked first. Paz stares at the wall, trying to work up the will to move his body, but the heaviness in his soul weighs him down, threatening to pull him into his despair.

* * *

Peering into the hanger, you see that Paz is still sitting on the floor, his bulky blue armor barely visible from here. You don’t know what’s going on, but you know for a fact that the crates he has brought back are not the food and the medical supplies the Tribe is in need of. The others are bunched up behind you, clearly worried for him, so you turn to face them.

“I’ll go talk to him,” you say, volunteering yourself.

“He needs a stiff drink,” someone says. “I got a stash.”

“You _di’kut_ ,” you snap at him. “You _know_ he doesn’t drink to cope. Maker, he needs someone with at least half-a-braincell.”

“Hey, it was just a suggestion, _Shu’shika_.”

“You all go make yourselves useful somewhere else. I hear that Hannah needs help with the kids.”

Predictably, the rest of the Tribe scatters like cockroaches, all hoping to avoid being voluntold into childcare duties. Shaking your head, you turn back to Paz. You gather your wits about yourself and edge into the hangar. Though you know he will not miss your approach, you make sure he can hear you coming. It isn’t until you kneel on the ground next to him that he looks up at you.

“Hey,” he says.

“What do you need?” you ask quietly.

His head falls back against the wall. In that moment, he looks like he has been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Surreptitiously, you glance over his armor and _kute_. Both are pristine. So Zephyr’s sorrow is not due to seeing combat on his first hunt. Something else had caused the two men this tremendous pain.

“Zephyr’s in medical,” Paz says tiredly.

“There is no force in this galaxy that could get between Doctor Shen and Zephyr,” you say gently. “I’m asking what _you_ need, Paz. How can I help _you_?”

He looks up.

“Me?” he asks, almost sounding confused.

“Yes, you,” you repeat. “How can I help you bear the burden you carry right now?”

“I…” He trails off. “I don’t know.”

A wry smile crosses your lips, though he cannot see it.

“People don’t ask you that often, do they, hunter?” you whisper to him, your heart breaking cleanly in half for the warrior in front of you.

You wonder if anyone has ever shown him their appreciation for the difficult job he does. Does he view hunting as something he _should not_ be thanked for? That it is something that he is expected to do, without consideration of his needs? How long has it been since anyone last helped him bear his burdens? Your throat tightens. _You_ have been complicit in this – you have not shown him your kindness, nor your appreciation for what he does to care for the Tribe. Your heart _burns_ with regret and sorrow.

You have called this man family, yet you have not taken the time to take care of him.

“No,” Paz says, at long last. “They don’t.” After several long moments, he continues, his voice heavy as lead in your ears. “It isn’t my place…to tell you what happened.”

You make a solemn vow to make sure no one else in this Tribe will ever be so woefully unappreciated again.

“Then tell me this, Paz. How do you feel right now?”

He lets out a mirthless huff of amusement.

“I haven’t failed this miserably at a hunt in almost twenty years.”

You tilt your helmet and frown.

“ _Was_ it a failure?”

“I set out for food and medical supplies,” Paz says tiredly. “I came back with none of it. I failed to provide for my Tribe.”

 _Ah_ , you think to yourself, _that’s what is bothering him. Well, one of the things that are bothering him, at least._ You gather your courage. You might have only known him for a few months now, but you have always secretly admired him. His strength. His dedication.

“Paz, do you really think that bringing back the wrong items means you have somehow failed us?” you ask quietly. Before he can answer, you dare to slip your own small hands around his, sandwiching his massive palm between yours. “You are so much more than just a hunter to us.”

He looks down at your hands. For a brief moment, you think he might tell you to let go, but he does not. Instead, his fingers tighten around yours. You have seen how strong those hands are, how easily he handles that massive cannon of his, yet he squeezes you with a gentility that makes your cheeks heat up.

“I know we’ve been Tribe for only a few months now, but in that time, you’ve made yourself our _family_ ,” you continue. “From day one, you looked after our children the same way you look after your own. You saw one child shiver in the cold classroom, and that was all it took for you to start waking up early enough to go turn environmental controls on.”

Paz tilts his helmet down, almost…shyly?

“Caring for the children is my job,” he says, his voice a bit gruff.

“By day four, you had every single one of our kids following at your heels,” you say in a faintly teasing tone. When his head tilted down further, you dared to continue, relishing in the warrior’s sweet embarrassment. “Gazing up at you in wide-eyed wonder, begging you to play with them.”

“They’ll do anything for sweets,” Paz muttered. “I didn’t do anything special.”

“Do you think so?” you ask. “You sat your _shebs_ on the floor, let them all pile in around you, and taught them how to tie knots. In all those cables you spent hours organizing.”

“Learning is how a Tribe grows strong,” he counters stubbornly. “It’s my job.”

“On your next hunt, you went and picked out a small toy for each one,” you remind. “It took you so long to pick them out that you missed your return deadline by _six hours_. Is that part of your job?”

He sighs grumpily. A puff of laughter escapes you in response. He knows he has been caught. You forge on bravely, hoping that he will not think poorly of you for sitting here and spilling your innermost thoughts out to him. But he needs to hear it, you think.

His Tribe came from such dire straits. You do not know much of what they had gone through. Paz had not been forthcoming. All Dezha would say was that the rest of his Tribe was gone, with no presumed survivors. It was no wonder that Paz felt like he had to be responsible for every little thing. In a way, he kind of had been. He had been his peoples’ source of stability and strength, putting aside his own needs and wants to ensure the most precious members of his Tribe could thrive.

“No matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise, you are a respected and trusted figure of authority here. You are a leader, Paz. A teacher and caretaker.” You swallow. “You are dedicated to providing for each and every last person here, but you never ask for anything in return. We basically have to harass you until you tell us what you need. What you _want_.” He does not look up, nor does he refute your statement. He knows it is true. “We all do our part to ensure we remain strong, but you go above and beyond what is asked of you every single time. No matter what we ask of you, you give us everything you have. And I don’t think you have gotten the same back from us.

He stays quiet as he looks down at your entwined hands.

“That isn’t fair to you,” you whisper.

Then his strong fingers curl a little tighter around yours, sending heat shooting into your cheeks and making your breath hitch a little. _Maker_ , you truly hope he did not hear that. How could holding someone’s hand make you so nervous?

“S-so please don’t ever think you are not doing enough for us, Paz,” you continue, stammering slightly. “Even if…even if we aren’t the best at showing you our gratitude…you are a trusted and cherished member of this Tribe. We care deeply for you.”

“You don’t need to show me your gratitude,” he says a bit gruffly. “This is my job, _Shu’shika_. Do yours the best you can. And that’ll be enough for me. For all of us.”

_He still hasn’t let go of you._

“You do not need to bear this burden alone,” you say. “Let us help you. Let us take care of you, the same way you take care of us. I will – _we_ will always be here to support you, Paz. That is what we do as a Tribe and as a family.”

“Once I can get this taken care of,” he says, gesturing at the piles of crates, “I just…I just need some sleep.”

“I can handle getting everything where it needs to go,” you say, volunteering yourself immediately.

“Can you handle those idiots?” Paz asks, tilting his head toward the doorway. “On a good day, I have to threaten to shoot them a few times before they will listen.”

“They probably enjoy threats of violence,” you say. “I have something more creative in mind.”

Paz lets out a huff of amusement, a low, rich noise that makes you grateful for the helmet on your head, hiding the way you are biting your lip and blushing cherry red.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Regrettably, you let go of his hand and climb to your feet. You lead the way out and make your way to the group of hunters loitering in the hangar. When you draw abreast of the group, you take a few moments to decide which hunter is best suited for which job.

“Terys, I need you to take the munitions to the Armory, please,” you say calmly, watching as his head turns down in your direction. For a brief moment, you wonder if he is going to give you sass, but in the end, he nods.

“Aye, _Shu’shika_ ,” he says, going toward the boxes at the end.

“Revala, would you please move the raw ores to the Foundry?” you ask.

“Aye,” she says. She goes off for the cart in the corner.

Your good luck ends there, unfortunately, and some of the others start to file out, clearly ready to ignore your requests.

“Neten, Lyras, I think that the two of you can handle the supplies going to the kitchen,” you say. “Hannah will need some help getting the heavier items moved onto the shelves.”

Lyras comes forward, but Neten turns away.

“Neten, come on,” Lyras says. “We have a job to do.”

“She doesn’t tell me what to do,” Neten scoffs.

All heads turn in your direction at the challenge issued by the _much_ larger hunter.

“Neten, you do not have to do what I ask you to do,” you say calmly. “But let me remind you that I schedule childcare duties around here. If you choose to not help here, your ample amounts of free time will be spent in the nursery for the foreseeable future.”

Neten stares at you, clearly in shock at your threats. You really are not in the mood to fight right now, so you keep your posture as nonconfrontational as possible. Not only that, you’ve managed to leave your knife in your room again, so you have no weapons on your person. Neten then looks at Paz.

“She can’t do that,” Neten says to Paz. “Right? She can’t just decide – “

In that instant, Paz growls and his posture changes, making him look twice as big as he stalks forward. Even though Paz is only a few centimeters taller than Neten, he seems to loom over him, advancing with slow menacing steps until Neten shrinks back into the wall.

“Imagine the hell your life will become if Alor and Armorer find out you are refusing to do your assigned duties,” Paz growls quietly.

Neten decides to try his luck.

“But she has no authority over me,” Neten says, squaring his shoulders and giving you what you assume is a glare. “She can’t tell me what to do – “

Paz lifts his hand and places it on the wall right next to Neten’s audial, leaning in closer. Neten shrinks back against the wall.

“Well, guess what, Neten. I have decided that _Shu’shika_ oversees you from now on. If she tells you to jump, you will do so, and then you will thank her for the privilege,” Paz says, in a soft, silky voice that makes your knees tremble. When Neten splutters indignantly, Paz jabs one finger into his chest plate, silencing his retorts. He continues in a heavy growl, “ _Do not test me again_.”

Wisely, Neten turns his head down in a clear show of his submission. Paz lingers for another second to ensure Neten knows his place. Then Paz backs up a step, and the tension in the room dissipates entirely. In theory, you have always known that Paz’s position as _Alor’ad_ means that he must have ironclad control over the hunters to keep them in line. Up until now, he has never had to prove that he has the biggest brass set in the room, so to speak.

Paz stares at Neten expectantly.

“I will do as I am told,” Neten says grumpily.

“You will do as _Shu’shika_ tells you to do,” Paz corrects.

“I will do as _Shu’shika_ tells me to do,” he repeats, though it sounds positively painful for him to repeat.

“Thank you,” you say politely.

“If _any_ of these idiots so much as _breathe_ in a way that offends you, let me know,” Paz says to you, ensuring everyone can hear him. He stares the crowd down for another moment, “I will come deal with the problem.”

No one dares to move. After a few seconds, Paz stomps off, clearly annoyed. As you watch after him, you realize the hunters are waiting for their orders, so you quickly finish assigning everything as fairly as you can.

For your duties, you grab some cleaning supplies and head into the _Desert Lark_ to begin tidying up. It is not necessary, but you really would like to make things a little easier for Paz. You have a strong suspicion that Paz is going to go back out on a hunt. Given how strongly he believes his worth to the Tribe is tied to his offerings, you are surprised he is not already trying to refuel. Well, the least you can do for him is make it a little easier for him.

After a little subtle snooping, you find that Paz has been held up in medical for some reason or another. You know it has something to do with Zephyr. Your _buir_ always said that every Mandalorian needs to take some time to themselves after enduring something stressful. Some go shooting. Others spar. Others yet meditate. You are not sure which of those would most likely appeal to Paz, but you do know he will neglect his needs to look after Zephyr. Veering off course, you go straight to the kitchen. It is closed for the night, but you figure Hannah won’t mind terribly if you reopen for Zephyr.

You put together a small but nourishing meal for him – a clear broth, hot and lightly spiced, with buttered bread and some pickled vegetables. You make sure to add some cookies from your secret stash of snacks so he can have something sweet to nibble on. For Paz, you grab some standard rations. As much as you would like to make something special for him, you get the feeling he would prefer as much normalcy in his routine as possible so he could focus on Zephyr.

Zephyr had that listless, almost catatonic quality to him, as if Doctor Shen’s hand at his elbow was the only thing keeping him upright. He has always been such a sweet and gentle young man, someone who has always hesitated to bring harm to another, even during sparring. Even though he tries to avoid babysitting duties as much as he can, he does make up for it by doing other chores around the place. Something has hurt him very deeply, and your heart aches for him. When everything is packed away, you send Paz a brief message asking if you can bring some food for the two of them. He agrees and meets you at the door. You hand the bag over to him.

“Thanks,” he says.

“If you or Zeph need anything else, we are here,” you say quietly. “Please don’t hesitate to reach out, _vod_.”

He glances back over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says, looking back at you. “I will keep that in mind.”

You nod once and turn back down the hallway, your thoughts slipping away from you. The next morning, you find a small box at your workstation. Frowning to yourself, you pick it up and open it. Inside, nestled in a ragged piece of burlap, you find a tiny carved loth-cat, barely bigger than a strawberry.

There is no note included, but you know it is from Paz. He is the only person who would ever go out of their way to find something so small and beautiful for someone he barely knows. Smiling to yourself, you put the tiny cat back into the protective box. You didn’t even know Paz had been paying attention while you were talking about how much you wanted a pet loth-cat.

Then you nestle the box into your pocket, a strange feeling taking root in you.

[End Flashback]

* * *

[Current]

Once your work for the day is complete, you check the time and find you have several hours before dinner. Normally, you would go see what other chores are available to you, but today, you consider doing something else instead. Something self-indulgent. Gnawing on your lower lip, you nervously put your tools away, sorting them into the right boxes and trays. _Could_ you really skip helping the others, just so you can go see Paz? As you close the lid to your toolbox, you happen to look up. You jump a little when you see Armorer standing there.

“Armorer,” you say. “How can I help you?”

“I noticed you had marked your work for the day complete,” Armorer says. “I wanted to ask what plans you had for this evening.”

Ah, she needs help with something. Oh well, you think to yourself. It was a silly thing to think that you could skip for the day to go sneak in a few minutes with Paz. It had been a selfish thing to consider. Though, you do wonder how she had gotten here so quickly.

“I did not plan for anything tonight,” you respond. “Do you need something specific?” You are already reaching for your toolbox, but she cuts you off.

“Dezha was supposed to be helping Paz with the children,” Armorer says in a casual tone. “However, I need his help elsewhere. The children have been unusually unruly this week, and with Paz’s injury…” She trails off deliberately. “Would you be willing to help him?”

“Of course,” you say, the words slipping out of your mouth without hesitation. “I would be happy to help. Are we doing language lessons today?”

“No, no specific lessons today,” Armorer says. “We just need the children kept out of the way while the rest of us clean up the hangar.”

“The hangar?” you ask in confusion. “What happened - ?”

“Do not concern yourself with that,” Armorer says in a soothing tone. “Will you please help Paz?”

“Yes, absolutely,” you say, nodding. “I’ll head to the nursery now.”

“Excellent,” Armorer purrs. “I will walk you there.”

The walk to the nursery is a short one. It is past the normal work hours, yet you see no one else lingering in the hallways. Home is strangely empty. It almost unsettles you. Armorer keeps you moving at a brisk pace before she finally directs you into the nursery, physically blocking the doorway behind you. Paz is not wearing his armor – only his suit and padding – while he carries a child under each arm. It looks like he is in the middle of reenacting some science fiction scene in the middle of the toys, one foot poised over a pile of toppled blocks.

“Hey,” Paz says, as he sets the two children down. “What can I help you two with?”

“I need Dezha’s assistance with something,” Armorer says. “I brought _Shu’shika_ as your backup.”

“Shushi!” Ola shrieks, throwing down a wad of wrinkled paper.

The little girl comes barreling over and throws herself at your legs. Immediately, you scoop her up onto your hip and tweak her nose. She has a rainbow of marker ink smears all over her face and arms. As you look at the other children, you see they are in a similar state, and you find yourself hoping that Paz had given them the water soluble markers to draw with.

“ _Ba’vodu_!” Ellyn whines from the floor, “I want to play hunter and prey, please!”

“Sure,” Paz says.

“But your knee, Paz,” you say, coming forward a step.

“That little burn could barely be called an injury,” Paz scoffs. “Bacta took care of it in a few hours.”

Before you can think further on Armorer’s reference to his injury, Ellyn covers her eyes and starts to count. The other children scatter like leaves on the wind, scampering into their hiding spots. Paz looks around. Then at you. He comes to stand behind you. You give him an incredulous look over your shoulder. Tem comes skittering over and climbs up Paz’s leg. He scoops the child up against his chest and holds one finger up in front of his modulator as he sort of crouches behind you.

“Shh!”

You sigh quietly and stand there while Ellyn finishes counting. You are pretty sure there’s more of Paz hanging out from behind you than you actually cover up, considering how much larger he is.

Ellyn gets up and sprints to the other side of the room. She hits the timer and starts to race around the room, ripping the cushions off the couch and turning boxes over. The blood drains from your face as the already messy room becomes an actual disaster. From behind you, you can hear Tem and Paz snickering to themselves. You watch in fascinated horror as Ellyn finds all the children except for Tem and Paz. At this point, you think Paz has cemented himself as an oversized child.

“Tem!” Ellyn shouts. “ _Ba’vodu_ Paz! Where are you?”

At that moment, the timer goes off, and Ellyn lets out a noise of frustration. She kicks a stuffed animal out of her way. Paz steps out from behind you. When Ellyn sees them, her big brown eyes go wide with surprise. Then she lets out a scream of frustration.

That’s enough to set Paz and Tem off in a fit of hysterics.

“CHEATER!” Ellyn screams.

“We did not cheat,” Paz counters through his guffaws. “We hid behind _Shu’shika_.”

“But you can’t do that!” Ellyn wails.

Her lower lip wobbles and she goes off to sulk. Paz sets Tem down and he goes off to the pile of stuffed animals in the corner. You gingerly step through the piles of toys, still incredulous that the child had not noticed Paz hiding behind you. Well, she had probably focused on everything at eye level. And Paz…well, he is well above eye-level for most people in the Tribe.

As you are trying in vain to put some of the toys back where they belong, one of the toddlers comes forward on unsteady legs, holding a book up at you. Taking it, you find that it’s covered in something wet and sticky. When he wipes his nose with the back of his hand, you realize your fingers are covered in snot. A shudder of revulsion creeps up your spine.

“How about a story?” Paz asks the room at large, coming to your rescue.

“Let’s clean up,” you say, “Then we can all sit on the floor together.”

You quickly hand Paz the book and wipe the snot off your hand onto your pants.

“Clean up! Clean up!” Ellyn chants, rolling onto her knees. “Let’s clean up, everybody!”

The other children join in on the chant, organizing the piles of toys into their proper storage containers. You only have to corral the toddlers toward the right boxes a few times, while Paz gathers the drawings into a neat stack. From there, you settle into the chaos quickly. At times, it feels like the children are making a bigger mess than the one they are trying to clean up.

Surreptitiously, you watch Paz. You cannot help but to notice how good he is with the children. His voice is always gentle and patient. When they tackle him for a Paz Pile, he indulges them, playing for a few moments before redirecting them to the monumental task of cleaning up the playroom. The same snot-covered toddler picks up a toy ship and pats Paz on the leg. He crouches and wraps both hands around the boy’s waist.

“Alright, _vod’ika_ ,” Paz says gently. “Let’s jump up really high and put the toy away, alright?”

“ _Ba’vodu_!” the boy squeals.

Paz lifts and the boy shrieks in delight. As soon as the others see what _Ba’vodu_ Paz is up to, they go running over with their own toys, clamoring for their turn. Ola is halfway up Paz’s leg by the time you go to offer backup. Slowly, but surely, the room is tidied up and readied for tomorrow. Then Paz takes the book back to the seat. Ola scrambles out of his way before he sinks down.

Paz starts to read, his voice low and soothing. The story is about a beggar and a merchant. You don’t recall the exact plot points, but you do know the moral of the story is to always be kind to those in need. While Paz keeps the children entertained, you go gather up the last few toys and put them away.

Then you grab the broom and start sweeping up the crumpled tissues and candy wrappers. You purse your lips at the amount of candy he had fed them. Ah, well. If _strille_ could be trained with positive reinforcement, so could children. As Paz gets further into the story, the littlest ones start to drift off, and you carefully nestle them onto the sleeping mats.

Ola’s _buire_ are the first to come back for her. She presses her forehead against Paz’s shoulder as she yawns into her fist. Then she pats you on the knee as she stumbles to her parents. She is quickly scooped up and carried away. One by one, or sometimes in twos, the children go home with their parents, until you and Paz are standing alone in the empty nursery. Paz marks his place with a bookmark and puts it away. Then he gets up and stretches out a bit.

“Looks like we’re done with our assigned childcare for tonight,” Paz says. “Thank the Maker.”

“Yes,” you say, almost stammering. “Uh. Childcare.”

He tilts his helmet inquisitively, clearly having picked up on your anxiety. Before you can stop yourself, you speak up.

“Paz, what are you doing tonight?” you ask.

“I don’t have plans,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

“Want to ditch evening chores?”

“ _You_ want to ditch evening duties?” he asks, tilting his head the other way. “ _Shu’shika_ , people will accuse me of corrupting you.”

You laugh in response.

“I’ve done my fair share of double duties for at least ten years,” you respond. “How about it, Paz? Want to be irresponsible with me?”

“Yes,” he says. “Let’s go before anyone gets any ideas.”

The two of you go to the door. You peer down both ends of the hallway. Near the hangar, you can see people streaming loitering. One of them looks up and immediately turns around, grabbing a box. _Weird._

“Okay,” you say to Paz, “Looks like they’re still working in the hangar.”

His hand settles at your waist as he peers down the hallway over your head. When the last person enters the hangar, you grab his hand and pull, leading him away from the others.

“Come on, let’s go,” you whisper to him.

You lead him away from the rest of the Tribe, muffling your laughter, sneaking from shadow to shadow like an oversized pair of misbehaving teenagers. At the main entrance, you find your plans to go pick berries thwarted by an incoming thunderstorm. You let out a noise of disappointment. Paz joins you outside as the wind picks up, the trees dancing and swaying as the _pit-pat_ of rain grows louder. When you shiver, Paz’s hand settles at your waist, and he pulls you closer to him.

“Well, looks like we’re stuck inside,” you sigh to Paz, curling your face toward his shoulder, his torso blocking the worst of the cold.

“We can watch from here,” Paz says.

The first crack of lightning makes you jump, and as if the skies had been waiting for that exact moment, the rain begins to pour down in sheets. You can feel Paz tilt his head down to look at you. Rather than tease you, he runs his fingers against your back comfortingly. That is all it takes for you to melt against your warrior, eyes drifting shut as you dare to wrap your arm around his muscular waist.

When his other arm wraps itself around you, enclosing you in his tender embrace, you surrender immediately, offering no resistance to him. You can no longer deny what your heart has been screaming at you. You love Paz Vizsla. You’ve been in love with him for Maker-only-knows-how-long. As you listen to the steady thumping of his heart, you feel giddy and lightheaded, almost as if you are drunk on his touch alone. Then, his hand rises from your waist, his fingers settling at your jaw, making your breath hitch in your throat. Paz tilts your face up toward his gently. You rise onto your tip-toes to close gap, anticipation making your stomach flutter.

When only a handspan separates you from Paz, you think there could not have been a more perfect moment for this to happen, for you to finally kiss your warrior –

Then, suddenly, the door slams open, bathing the two of you in harsh, bright light. You and Paz freeze in place as the speaker starts to come outside.

“ – figure out how to make it look like there was actually a spill,” Din says, as he steps through the doorway.

When Din notices the intimate embrace you and Paz are sharing, he freezes, one foot in the air, and lets out a noise of pure despair. Dezha peers out after him and he inhales audibly. He grabs Din by the backplate and yanks him back, shutting the door behind them, but the damage has been done.

The warm pleasure that had once filled you is now gone, replaced with the mortification at having been caught in such a compromising position. Your _buir_ would be so disappointed that you were sneaking off with someone and then being stupid enough to get caught trying to rub helmets with him. Your stomach drops straight through your feet. What if that had been _Armorer?_

“ _Shu’shika_ ,” Paz says, in that low rumble of his, his hand falling to your waist once more, his intentions clear as day to you.

“What if that had been one of the children?” you ask softly. “What sort of example would we be setting for them?”

He tilts his head in confusion. Keldabe kisses are one of the few ways Mandalorians can show love and affection for each other.

“Paz, I can’t,” you say in a rush, “Not until we’re marr – I mean, not unless – “

You fall silent and exhale in frustration. You take a full step back, regretfully leaving that warm, wonderful place against him that smelled like leather and something woodsy.

“Paz, for my family…it’s not,” you stammer out.

“I will respect the boundaries you set for our relationship,” he says gently. “You do not have to explain anything to me.”

 _Our relationship?_ His words make your knees wobble dangerously. You take a deep, calming breath.

“I know I don’t have to, but I would like for you to know,” you say softly. “My family is conservative, Paz. Helmets only come off after the vows are exchanged. Touching each other the way we were…it is…generally discouraged.”

You swallow. Your refusal to engage in a lot of physical acts has made it difficult to find a partner. You hope Paz is willing to wait, but you do not blame him if he wants to move on.

“I know we are both adults, but I…I truly feel something for you, Paz. And I do not want you to be in a position where I might give you the wrong idea,” you stutter out, face flaming with heat. “For my tribe of origin, it’s…considered inappropriate. Not without stating my intentions.”

“…and what are your intentions toward me?” he whispers.

“Paz, I…I cannot give you my body without also giving you my heart,” you whisper, so softly you wonder if he can hear you. “I-I…I would want something permanent between us. Before any of that happens.”

He thinks for a moment.

“Would…Would it be alright if I called you _cyar’ika_?”

“Y-yes,” you whisper, hardly daring to believe that Paz _wants_ to call you his _cyar’ika_ after what you just told him.

“There’s something I would like to tell you,” he says. “Something I’ve wanted to tell you for a while now.”

You nod to encourage him, and he clears his throat, looking away nervously.

“I’m not good with words. I’ve already forgotten half of what I wanted to tell you.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper back. “Speak from your heart, Paz, and you will tell me what I need to hear.”

“I…I ah…feel something for you too,” he says. “For months now, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, all the effort you put into supporting the Tribe.” He clears his throat again, looking away shyly. “I can’t stop thinking about all the tiny things you do _for me_. The number of times you have stayed up to wait for me to return from a hunt. In case I need help. So, I won’t be _alone_ another night. I have never had the privilege of having someone like you covering my _shebs_ …and for so long, I did not see your devotion to _me_ , the way you show me your affection each and every day.”

He swallows and reaches up with trembling fingers. A wave of tears escapes you as you tilt your face into his touch. Maker, you are falling apart at the seams. If he keeps going like this, you are not going to last long enough for him to get to what he is trying to tell you. His thumb brushes against the curve of your cheek plate, brushing away the tears he seems to know are coursing hot tracks down your cheeks.

“For years now, I’ve been holding off, waiting for the right time, waiting for the right person,” Paz says quietly. “Someone who will make me strong where I am weak. Someone who will allow me to be their strength where they are weak. Someone who will be my equal, here at home and when we hunt. Someone who will help me raise our future warriors.”

Your heart starts to pound so hard you fear Paz will be able to hear it hammering up against your ribs. Then your throat tightens up and you cannot hold the cascade of tears back any longer. They fall freely now. You just barely manage to turn off your modulator in time to hide your choked whimpers, equal measures of fear and hope filling you. Fear that he will turn you down, reject you for your decision to abstain from a physical relationship. Hope that he has come to see you for who you are. Hope that he understands. Hope that he will still want to share his life with you.

“May I hold your hand?” Paz whispers.

You place your shaking hand in his without hesitation, a choked sob escaping you, one that you _know_ he registers. He looks down, staring at your tiny hand in his. His fingers enclose yours firmly, gently. Reverently. He clears his throat.

“When we are together, you fill me with such overwhelming joy and peace. For the first time in my life, I finally feel _whole_ , like you’ve filled a void in my heart that I never even knew was there,” he whispers. “I can’t stop thinking about the loss that consumes me when we are apart. There are times when I am on a hunt and I cannot even sleep because I miss you so much. Every second we are parted, I long to return to your side.”

You nod vigorously, still trying to stifle the stubborn tears coursing down your face. He continues, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

“You have always been the beacon of light that guides me home through the storm, _cyar’ika_ ,” he says. He places the flat of your palm against the _karta bes’kar_ embedded in his armor. “One day, I would like to be the same to you.”

With those words, you promptly lose whatever tenuous control you had over your emotional state. You start to sob as you place your free hand over his, and draw closer, pressing your forehead against his chest plate. He draws you into a tentative hug, resting his chin atop your head. As you nestle into that safe place in his arms, you come to a realization that steals the breath from your lungs.

This is where you feel respected, cherished, and loved.

This is where you will raise your future warriors together, as equals.

Here, in his arms, you have _finally_ found your home.

“ _Cyar’ika,_ I have always intended for this to be a permanent relationship,” Paz says. “I’ve been talking to Armorer about asking you to accept me in courtship, so I can do this the right way for you. So, I can give you a relationship that honors the paths we have both sworn to walk.”

You sniffle and nod, struggling to stifle your tears long enough to speak. At this point, you don’t care if he knows you are crying – there’s no way you can hide the shaking of your shoulders. Maker, who knew that Paz had such a way with words? You’ve known him for years now, yet you have only now just glimpsed the passion he’s kept locked up so deeply inside himself, hidden from everyone but you. And Maker, you _want_ to feel every bit of the passion he has for _you_.

There had been just one other before Paz, someone you had loved with all your heart and soul. They had promised themselves to you, promised to wait until it was time to marry, and you had accepted their promise. Within weeks, they were pressuring you for more and more, attempting to convince you to turn away from the promise you made to yourself when you were sixteen. You have always wanted to find love with someone who loved you for your adherence to your faith, for your skills, and for who you are. Someone who would respect your desire to limit physical touch to only kissing, out of respect for your tribe of origin. They had promised you all of that, but it was a lie.

When they had pulled you in for a kiss, you resisted, yet they had forced it on you, their hands falling to grope you. You had ended the relationship on the spot. That unwanted touch had been a blatant violation of your trust in them and their promise to you. It had hurt to lose them, but they had made the choice to violate your boundaries and make you feel unsafe and unloved.

You truly love Paz, in that way that makes you feel dizzy and lightheaded. You are older now, more capable of seeing those warning flags that you had not recognized as a young girl. Paz has only ever been respectful and considerate, not a single inappropriate word or gesture escaping him. He has only ever treated you like an equal. Your heart swells with your love for this man, to the point where you feel you are going to burst with joy.

Now, you find yourself aching and wanting for this man so intensely that it frightens you. And that is why you _know_ you have to hold back – right now, you aren’t sure you have the willpower to stop yourself from giving your kind, gentle warrior anything he might ask you for.

Hearing the way he speaks to you, the gentle tone, the way he asks for your permission to hold your hand and to call you his _cyar’ika_ …you know he will respect you. That he will not ask you for what you cannot give him right now. That he will wait as long as you need.

“ _Cyar’ika,”_ he says softly.

You turn your modulator back on.

“Yes, Paz?” you whisper hoarsely.

“Would you…would you be willing…to talk to the Elders?”

“Paz, my answer is yes,” you say. “I will accept courtship with you.”

“You have made me a very happy man, _cyar’ika_ ,” he says. “May I give you something?”

Nodding, you take a half step back and sniffle back the tears that spring to your eyes once more. You watch as Paz reaches into his pocket and withdraws something flat and small, pressing it into your hands. As you unwrap it, he speaks, and your face drains when you recognize what he is giving you – his clan signet – and not the one any regular member of the clan would wear. This one is intricately detailed, hand-carved by a master craftsman.

“I know this isn’t a blade, but I just can’t wait any longer, I want to give you something special to me,” he says shyly. “If you are willing, I would like you to become lady of Clan Vizsla. You don’t have to answer right now. Please just think about it, I just…I just want you to have that.”

As you stare down at the signet in your hands, it suddenly feels heavier, and you realize the responsibilities you will have to shoulder if you accept his request. You will be more than his _riduur_ – you will act in his stead when he is away. You will guide the newlyweds in their journeys together. You will be there for the birth of each child to tend to the new _buire_. You will teach, you will negotiate, and if need be, you will wage war on his behalf. As you look, he shifts nervously again, clearly waiting for you to say something. Swallowing, you square your shoulders and take a deep breath. Looking up at your beloved, you do your best to keep your voice steady. With Paz by your side, there is nothing you cannot accomplish. You will succeed, so long as you have him with you.

“It would be my greatest honor to one day join your clan,” you stutter out, your voice shaking. “As both your wife and lady of the house, I will serve our family with pride and humility.”

Paz exhales shakily, as if he had been holding his breath. You lean in and give him a gentle hug. Paz returns it. The two of you linger for a few minutes before finally parting. You wrap the signet in the cloth and tuck it into the pouch where you keep your tools. Squeezing his hand, you look up at him, giddiness filling you at the thought of standing by his side.

* * *

[Bonus Scene]

Din sinks against the wall, pressing his hands into his bucket.

“We worked so hard to get this to happen,” Din groans, “We worked so _kriffing hard_ for this and I fucked it up – “

“Calm down,” Dezha responds. “They haven’t come back inside yet, so that means they’re still talking. There is still hope – “

“What if he was proposing?” Din hisses at Dezha. “What if I fucked up my only brother’s proposal – “

“You said he wants a proper courtship, did you not?” Din snaps.

“Well, yeah,” Din says.

“So, he has to ask if she’s willing to accept courtship _before_ he can ask her to marry him,” Dezha retorts. “You didn’t ruin anything. _Calm down._ He was probably just kissing her.”

“He said he wouldn’t do anything against the rules,” Din retorts.

“Oh, right,” Dezha says. “Let’s get going before someone comes to investigate. We do _not_ want to spread gossip – “

“Ooh, is Paz kissing _Shu’shika_?” Jalyn asks in a sing-song tone from the hallway. Then mischievously, “Or is _Shu’shika_ the one kissing Paz, hmm?”

“Jalyn, I will break every bone in your body if you spread lies,” Dezha hisses at him.

“So, no kisses yet?” Jalyn asks. “How much longer are they going to make us wait?”

“Make _us_ wait?” Din asks incredulously.

“I have been getting my offering for the wedding feast ready for a year now,” Jalyn says, turning his nose up haughtily, “My gift will be one they cherish for decades to come.”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Din says, “I need to get a gift – “

“Calm _down_ ,” Dezha says. “We are _not_ going to scare either of them from – “

“Ooh, are we talking gifts?” Revala asks from the doorway. “I bought the most _beautiful_ set of baby onesies a few months ago – “

“They aren’t even married yet,” Dezha says incredulously, “They may only wish to bring foundlings into their family – “

“Please,” Revala scoffs, “Have you seen how broody Paz gets around the babies? If that man could carry an infant, I have no doubts we’d be up to our armpits in Vizsla brats.”

“Okay, let’s have this discussion _elsewhere_ ,” Dezha says. “If they come back in and find us here, they’ll know we set them up.”

“Paz already suspects we’re trying to help things along,” Din says. “We need to tone it back before he gets mad at us.”

“Listen, we have been _dying_ for a proper wedding,” Jalyn chimes in. “If he proposes tonight, I think Hannah could have the feast ready by tomorrow morning.”

“GET _OUT_ ,” Dezha roars, finally losing his patience. “Give them privacy, for _kriff’s_ sake!”

“I wonder if _Shu’shika_ will finally let him have a kiss,” Jalyn muses, as he heads toward the door.

“Jalyn, I will make your life miserable if you tease her,” Dezha warns.

“A little teasing – “ Jalyn begins.

Dezha advances, pressing one finger into the _karta bes’kar_ on Jalyn’s breast plate.

“Do you know what an accordion is, Jalyn?”

“The…the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Jalyn asks, voice tiny with terror.

“ _Do you_?” Dezha hisses.

“Yes,” Jalyn says. “It is a musical instrument from the Far Reaches – “

“Alright,” Dezha says. “If you do _anything_ to make _Shu’shika_ uncomfortable, I will cram one fist down your throat, the other up your arse, and _play you like a fucking accordion_. Are we clear, _shabuir_?”

Jalyn’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out. He eventually gathers his senses and nods. Dezha points down the hallway and they move away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Di’kut - idiot  
> Buir(e) - parent(s)  
> Resol’nare - 6 tenets of Mandalorian tradition  
> Dar’manda - a state of being soulless, something that traditional Mandalorians fear greatly  
> Riduur - spouse  
> Bes’kar - Mandalorian steel  
> Beskar’gam - Armor  
> Shabuir - jerk, but really strong, not a nice word  
> Shebs - rear  
> Cyar’ika - darling, sweetheart  
> Karta bes’kar - the indentation in the chest plate, lit. iron heart  
> Ba'vodu - Uncle  
> Vod'ika - lil sibling


	8. Picking Up the Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Paz x F Reader, mentions of Paz with other characters  
>  **Word Count:** 15.8k  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Warnings:** Cursing, references to self-harm/mental illness (but no graphic descriptions, just signs/symptoms associated with a traumatic event), recovery, the author’s note also discusses an ask that I got that triggered me pretty hard. Please keep that in mind.  
>  **Author’s Notes:** Man, this chapter was so hard to write. But I am super happy that I spent all this extra time on it – I was able to develop a lot of original ideas on Mando’a and Mando’a Sign Language. Yes, I know Chapter 7 is “Calm Before the Storm” but I had to split this chapter into two pieces. With what I have written for the next chapter, this clocked in at nearly 25k words, so I had to split it into two parts. This is the flashback; the next chapter gets us back in the timeline.
> 
> ALSO
> 
> I also want to take a moment to bring up something that needs to be addressed. On Tumblr, I got an anon ask requesting a romantic situation for Paz x Zephyr. Now, I’m really hoping that the Anon who sent it isn’t 100% aware of why this pairing is problematic. So, I’m going to address it here in the hopes of getting the point across and maybe help everyone understand why this is never going to happen.
> 
> Right now, Zephyr is in no condition to advocate for himself. He is incapable of making sound decisions on his own. Other people are going to have to step in to help him take care of himself. If Paz - someone Zephyr trusts with his life – attempted a sexual relationship with him, Paz would be _preying on a vulnerable person_. It does not matter that Zephyr is an adult. Paz has been a source of authority, a teacher, and a family member to Zephyr for thirteen years. At the time of this flashback, Zephyr is 19 and Paz is 40. That is a 21 year gap between the two of them. _There is no reason for a forty-something year old to strike up a relationship with a teenager_. A teenager does not have the same life experiences that someone in their forties has. A teenager does not always know what red flags to look for in a relationship. A romantic relationship between them would be an utter violation of that trust. It isn’t illegal, but it is _wrong_. It is _predatory_. It is _abusive_.
> 
> The anon was blocked/reported, so unless they have another account or something, they probably are not seeing this message. For those of you who can see this, please understand that I will never write Paz x ANYONE he helped raise. I only write sexual scenes between eagerly consenting adults of similar age (or, if there is an age gap, they have similar shared experiences). My exception to this rule is Urgency, which involves the sex pollen trope. Chapter 2 deals with the fallout of said discussion. For the foreseeable future, anon asks on Tumblr will be turned off. Thank you for understanding why.
> 
> If you, or anyone you know is in an abusive relationship, or suspect someone you love is in an abusive relationship, please contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 800-799-7233. You can text LOVEIS to 22522. If you can’t use your phone, you can chat online by navigating to the page and clicking the “Chat Now” button in the top right corner.

**❤️** [ **This beautiful moodboard** ](https://huliabitch.tumblr.com/post/625843601786781696/you-reblog-it-as-many-times-as-you-want-im-so) **is by the amazing** [ **@huliabitch** ](https://tmblr.co/mz64nHKDGtiJG5CQQG4Wkfw) **! Thank you so much!**

* * *

[flashback]

Paz cracks his eyes open, grimacing at the shrill screeching emanating from his helmet. Reaching over, he blindly feels along the sheets until his fingers brush up against the cool _bes’kar_ , and he pulls it to himself.

“Alarm off,” he croaks out, rubbing his eyes.

With an annoyingly chipper _bloop_ , the damned ruckus dies away. Briefly, he considers staying in bed with the pillow over his head, but his brain stubbornly reminds him about the lengthy list of tasks he must complete today. Paz pushes himself up into a seated position, suppressing a groan at the dull ache in his lower back. Shuffling to his feet, he pads over to the shelves where he keeps his clothes, stretching his arms high above his head.

Then he starts getting dressed, his thoughts wandering aimlessly. They had gotten home yesterday, yet it felt distant and faded, like it had all happened in a different lifetime. Paz grabs his helmet last and slides it on, watching as the interior displays light up to give him his surroundings. He exhales gustily and grimaces – well, that is one part of his morning routine that cannot wait. While wearing a helmet, one must always attend to their personal care often and thoroughly. Paz picks up his toiletry bag and steps out of his room. To his surprise, Zephyr is already awake and going through the drawers.

“Hey,” Paz calls out.

Zephyr turns to greet him, a look of confusion on his face.

“Morning, old man,” Zephyr asks. “Uh, where is everything?”

Paz tilts his helmet questioningly.

“What are you doing?” he asks, glancing at the array of containers on the counter.

“Shu’shika brought some stuff for breakfast earlier today,” Zephyr says with a shrug. “Figured I’d make myself useful, you know?”

“What do you need?” Paz asks.

“A _kriffing_ knife, _di’kut_. How do you expect me to slice any of this?” Zephyr gives him an incredulous look, adding a vulgar gesture at the end of it all.

The young man rolls his eyes pointedly and turns back to the narrow counter. Paz huffs in amusement and smiles to himself – at least there’s one part of Zephyr that feels normal.

“Wait a second,” Paz responds.

Paz returns to his room. Rummaging through the boxes, he finds the box of knives. Then he brings it out and hands it to Zephyr. The kid furrows his brow as he goes through the utensils.

“Uh…is there a reason why you are hoarding these?” Zephyr asks, raising a brow questioningly.

Immediately, his good mood evaporates. Paz wants to shake his head but decides against it at the last moment. Even with the disastrous results, Zephyr has completed his first hunt, and is now technically an adult. The realization sobers him. Paz decides that Zephyr needs his honesty more than anything else right now.

“When we came back, you were in a really bad place,” Paz says quietly. He swallows tightly, trying not to think back on that overwhelming feeling that had seized him. The mere thought of Zephyr harming himself had brought on such a deep sense of utter despair. “I…I panicked, Zeph. I thought you might do something drastic...I can’t bear to lose you, too, kid. I’m sorry if I assumed, but I just…I couldn’t risk it.”

Zephyr’s hands falter for just a moment on the utensils. He inhales and exhales, staring down at the battered cutting board in front of him.

“I’m not going lie to you, old man. It hurts. It still hurts like you can’t imagine. But that…that was never one of my coping mechanisms,” Zephyr responds. “Everything…I always turned it in on myself. Always self-destructive. I don’t eat. I don’t take care of myself. I p-push people away. I stop talking because it hurts less to stay mute, it hurts less to avoid…everything and everyone.”

Paz nods – he has seen the kid’s coping mechanisms before. He just never knew how far he took it.

“I-I have never wanted to hurt anyone else. ‘Specially not you. Doctor Shen gave me a list of things to do today. Eat something. Take a shower. Brush my teeth. And t-talk as much as I can.”

“What can I do to help?” Paz asks gently.

“Just… _be there_. Please. That’s all I need. Someone to listen.”

“I will always be here, Zeph,” Paz responds. “Whenever you’re ready, you can tell me about it. I’m in no rush right now.”

The young man nods, hands moving jerkily as he sorts through the vegetables in front of him. Paz remains silent, reaching for one of the root vegetables. He peels off the protective skin carefully, trying to avoid wasting any of the edible portion. When they had been children, they would have eaten the entire thing, skin included. How things have changed for him, Paz muses, occasionally taking subtle peeks over at his companion. Zephyr tries to speak on several occasions, but his mouth closes back up each time. It genuinely causes Paz immense distress to see him like this – jaw clenched tightly, hands shaking.

“It hurts…having seen him again like that. But I am happy that I got to see m-my b-”

He stutters for several moments, cheeks turning red with embarrassment and frustration. He stares down at the counter for several moments before taking a deep breath. Paz’s heart sinks. Doctor Shen said with the right support and treatment, Zephyr would be able to overcome the trauma from his childhood. Now, Paz is seeing the same frightened little boy once more - scared, hurting, and unable to speak or vocalize his pain.

Zephyr inhales and exhales, steeling his jaw, pushing forward through the urge to _avoid_ the things that are causing him to hurt so much. Paz nods gently to encourage him to continue, even as emotion squeezes his throat shut. Zeph had spent several years nearly mute, the mere act of speaking to those around him too much for him to bear. He lifts his hand to his _karta bes’kar_ and signs two words with shaking fingers. _First light_.

In Mando’a sign language, a child chooses a symbol to represent _their buir_ and sign it over their _kar’ta beskar_ – the closest place to their heart and _manda._ Most children choose something significant from their first memory of their _buir_. It is rare that any outsider will know what it means. Paz does not know _exactly_ what it means, but he can _guess_ what it means to Zephyr. Now, more than ever, Paz feels like he is overstepping, entering an intimate place that only Liam and Zeli had any right to know.

“When we left N…Nev…” Zephyr signs a very crude gesture over his stomach to symbolize their previous home. “I…I knew I was not going to see…”

He inhales shakily, a choked noise escaping him, face screwed up as if he is trying to stop himself from crying.

“Zeph – “ Paz begins, alarm filling him.

“I need to,” Zephyr says, turning big, brown eyes up at him. “I can’t…I can’t let myself. Stop. Talking again. I need. To get it out. Or I’ll never be able to. I don’t want to go back to that bad place again. I don’t want to lose myself again.”

“Take as long as you need,” Paz says gently. “I am not going anywhere, kid.”

After a few deep breaths, Zephyr swallows tightly, a quiet, pained noise escaping him.

“I knew I wasn’t going to see her…again. I got a feeling in my gut. I just knew I would never see her again. And I came to terms with it. Because I knew she would go marching with honor. Armorer…brought me back her helmet. Even though she’s not here, I will always have my…”

Zephyr signs her name. _Emerald field._

Paz is not prepared for the surprising pang of bittersweet sorrow in his chest. This time, he knows _exactly_ why Zephyr had chosen that nickname for his mother.

Zeli had always daydreamed about what they would do once the Empire was gone. She wanted to return to her tribe of origin to live a nomadic life on the lands like her ancestors had. She had told him stories about the sweet, colorful berries that she and her sisters used to paint their lips with. The honey-scented grass they would weave crowns from. Paz had once ached to live that life by her side, to give her and their _verd’ika_ the freedom they never could have while being hunted.

Paz almost feels _betrayed_ at the knowledge that Zeli had shared _their_ intimate dreams with Liam. He knows it’s wrong to feel that way – he was the outsider then, and he is the outsider now. _Kaiidth_ , he thinks to himself. What is, is. He cannot change what happened in the past. He can only change himself. Right now, he can only let go. Paz takes a slow, deep breath in before releasing it quietly, letting the emotion and tension leave him. He cannot make Zephyr’s pain about himself, not when he is in such desperate need of _someone_. The young man sniffles quietly.

“I’m not in a good place right now,” Zephyr continues, “B-but I got the chance to say goodbye, something that most people never get. I got closure. For that, I am deeply grateful.”

Paz nods in encouragement. Zephyr gives him a brittle smile before turning his attention back to the food on the counter, carefully scooping the root vegetables into a bowl.

“I’m not going to do anything stupid, Paz. That I can assure you. It’s just that a lot of memories came flooding back, good and bad. I just need time to process and decompress. See Doctor Shen for more coaching. Some meds. Hopefully, I’ll be back on my feet soon. You know. Out of your way and contributing.”

“Take as long as you need and _rest_ ,” Paz refutes immediately, “You being here will _never_ be an imposition, kid.”

A wry smile twists across his lips.

“What? Orders to rest, coming from you? The Mandalorian who refuses to acknowledge his injuries sometimes?” he quips, his tone changing to something darker.

“Well, it’s my job,” Paz says. Only after he finishes speaking that he realizes that was the wrong thing to say. Zephyr snorts, his smirk becoming a grimace.

“And it is my job now, too,” Zephyr says, “I want to do my job. I hate feeling useless and helpless, like I can’t take care of myself or my Tribe.”

“You are not useless, and you are not helpless,” Paz says firmly. “When our _vod_ needs help, we render it.”

“Paz, it’s not like someone stabbed me or I broke a bone or something. And I just can’t mope around all day, crying because my pa…my b - …” His voice squeaks as he tries to force himself to say the word. When he cannot, Zephyr tosses the knife down onto the cutting board in frustration. Hollowly, he continues, “I can’t even _talk_ like a normal person – what fucking _use am I_? Who would want me around – ? Why would anyone care – “

Paz immediately comes to stand directly next to him, placing one hand on Zephyr’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Paz says firmly, gently. “Look at me.”

Zephyr lifts his head. Paz sees tears streaming down his face, lips trembling, and pupils like pinpricks. His breaths come in short little gasps. Paz recognizes the impending panic attack immediately – he’d been plagued by them for most of his teens and early twenties. Now, he needs to get Zephyr grounded.

“Give me your hands,” Paz says, holding his hands out. When he complies, Paz presses Zephyr’s hands against his cuirass. “Breathe with me, alright? I know you can’t see my chest move, but you can feel it.”

Zephyr nods jerkily.

“Deep breath in, on the count of four,” Paz says quietly. “Hold. Now exhale slowly, on four. Just like that, kid. You’re safe with me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Paz stays there, holding Zephyr’s hands, coaching him through each breath. Paz doesn’t move a single muscle until his eyes lose that glassiness and his breathing returns to normal. Zeph pulls away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“S-sorry – I-I’m s-sorry – “

“Zeph,” Paz says. “Please don’t pull away from me, and please don’t apologize to me. I know you don’t like feeling vulnerable like this. I am here for you, no matter what you need.”

“I hate being weak,” Zephyr says. “I hate feeling like I can’t take care of myself.”

“Everyone needs help at some point. You have me,” Paz says.

“You never need help, you don’t need someone to hold your hand,” Zephyr blurts out stubbornly, “I’ve never seen you have a panic attack, or freak out because you can’t _talk_ – you just do what you need to do without complaining, or getting scared, or – “

Paz purses his lips.

“Can you see under my bucket?”

Zephyr blinks in surprise.

“What?” he asks. “No?”

“Then how do you know how I’m feeling?” Paz asks, tilting his helmet.

His gaze drops.

“I…I’ve never thought you…could be hurt,” Zephyr mumbles.

Paz closes his eyes for a moment. He smiles wryly, though the kid can’t see it.

“I’m not invulnerable, Zephyr. I’m made of skin and muscle and blood, just like you. I’m just good at hiding my injuries,” he says softly.

Zeph hangs his head.

“Kid, listen to me. Your heart and soul are wounded deeply right now. These are the injuries we cannot see. Injuries that bacta cannot heal. Right now, I know it feels like you are drowning, like your head just keeps slipping under. _I know_ how hard it is to keep fighting. To not _let yourself_ sink into that sorrow. But you _have to fight_ it.”

He stays silent.

“Healing takes time, Zephyr. You don’t need to do it in one day, or one week, or even one month. It might take decades before you heal. All you have to do is take that first step. No matter what, I’ll be your wall of meat and _beskar_ until you’re ready to stand on your own.”

“When does it stop hurting?” Zephyr asks in a tiny, shaking voice.

Paz exhales shakily.

“I won’t lie to you, kid. The only thing that changes is _how_ it hurts. It changes you and becomes part of you. You simply learn to live with it. You learn to not notice it as much. No matter what happens, Zephyr, I will be here for as long as you need me.”

Zephyr nods in response.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “Sorry. For…all this.”

“Don’t you apologize to me,” Paz says immediately. “No matter how much you annoy me, you are _family_ , and you always _will be._ ”

Hesitantly, Paz pulls him in for a hug. Then he presses a gentle _keldabe_ kiss to the top of his head. Immediately, Zephyr leans in to accept the affection, resting his forehead against Paz’s shoulder. Paz feels his throat tighten up as Zephyr’s hands tighten at the edge of his chest plate. He can feel the desperation and _need_ for physical contact in that brief touch. How long has it been since he last had a hug from someone who cared about him?

“I will always be here to support you. Every step of the way, no matter what, kid.”

“Thanks, _ner vod_ ,” Zephyr whispers. “I will hold you to that promise.”

Paz lets the embrace linger until Zephyr takes a half-step back.

“Can I ask you something, old man?”

“Yeah?” he responds, standing at arm’s length.

Noting that empty look on his face, Paz makes a note to clear his schedule for the next week. He loves and trusts his Tribe, but he would prefer to keep an eye on the kid himself. Not everyone knows his medical history the way he does, nor do they know how to coach him through his panic attacks.

“What did you call your b…” Zeph frowns and sighs to himself. He places his left hand on his right shoulder and rests the right hand over the other, as if cradling an invisible child to himself. Both hands, both parents. _Buire_. “Can I ask what…you called them? I-if you don’t mind?”

Paz smiles to himself as the fond memories come flooding back to him. No part of him hesitates to share those intimate details of his childhood.

“You will not be surprised what I called my father,” Paz says, signing _tall boots_ over his _kar’ta beskar_.

Zephyr laughs, genuine and rich, at the reminder of how Paz’s parents had begun married life together. With a silly prank and a joke about his father’s height. There are times were Paz looks in the mirror and realizes that he cannot remember which parent gave him which feature. He is sure that if he sees a picture of them now, he will not be able to recognize them. One thing Paz knows for certain is that he will _never_ forget his parent’s names, and he wants to make sure Zephyr knows them as well.

“My mother’s name was Sayyeh. It means ‘one who wanders’.” He signs _burns brightly_. “When she wasn’t working at the forge, she was off in the woods with her strill, hunting for food or trouble. My _Ba’vodu_ told me that my father followed her around with a lovestruck look on his face for weeks until she finally realized the piles of gifts left at her forge were from him. After accusing him of being a degenerate, she shot him, and they were married a week later.”

Zephyr smiles. This time, it reaches his eyes, and Paz feels relieved. Sharing his childhood memories – though few – had helped Zephyr the first time around. Paz only hopes that he can help set his heart at ease again.

“I wonder what they would be like now,” the words slip out of Zephyr’s mouth before he can stop them. Immediately, he looks contrite. He ducks his head down, as if expecting to be scolded. The memories are bittersweet, but they are all he has left of his parents. Paz tilts his head, the only way he can show Zephyr his smile.

“My father would probably still be stealing her candies, and she would be looking for ways to play jokes on him,” Paz says softly. “Zephyr, treasure the memories you have of your _buire_. Write them down, if you can, and keep them close to your heart. One day, when you have your own pack of gremlins underfoot, they will want to know about your _buire,_ too.”

Zephyr blinks. Just then, a very odd wistful look flits across Zephyr’s face, longing and sad. Before Paz can contemplate on what that look means, the young man nods and smiles warmly at him.

“I’ll…I’ll do that. Uh. Thanks, old man,” he says, voice cracking, “Don’t get all emotional on me.”

Paz exhales gustily. Well, he had tried to connect with him. Paz hopes the young man is happier than he had been before.

“You go do whatever it is you do in the morning,” Zephyr says, looking down at a small piece of paper on the counter. “I have Shu’shika’s super-secret recipe for…uhm…whatever this is. I think I can handle making breakfast.”

The gentle teasing jab spills out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“If you’re following Shu’shika’s instructions, it would behoove you to know that the fire extinguisher is under the sink,” Paz deadpans.

Zephyr gives him a wide-eyed look before bursting into laughter at his words, brown eyes crinkling up at the corners in true mirth. Paz joins in moments later, letting loose for the first time in weeks. It takes nearly thirty seconds for them to stop laughing. Zephyr hiccups quietly, a giggle escaping him, as he turns back to the food on the counter.

“Shoo, old man,” Zephyr says.

“Don’t get fresh with me,” Paz responds, letting his amusement pour forth, “I’ll smack you.”

Zephyr just waves one hand at him. Rolling his eyes to himself, Paz exits the room, toiletry basket in hand. The kid is lucky he is willing to put up with his attitude. When Paz reaches the facilities, he bypasses the communal shower and heads to the back for a private stall. He gets in line to wait.

Judging by the number of people in front of him, he will be here for quite a while. Hopefully, the food will be finished by the time he gets back. Terys is standing in front of him, playing a video game on his data pad to pass the time. Ahead of him is Neten, who is staring up at the ceiling in a show of clear annoyance, tapping his foot impatiently. And finally, ahead of him, he can see you, leaning against the wall, wearing a baggy sweater over your suit and a very large towel around your shoulders.

“Shu’shika, could I pay you to let me go ahead of you?” Neten asks, tilting his head in your direction.

“I don’t want money,” you respond, turning to look at him. “What are you offering?”

“The vent filters need to be replaced,” Terys offers, as his little spaceship hits an asteroid and explodes into a shower of pink pixels. “ _Damn_.”

“I’ve already found volunteers for that,” you say with a shrug, turning back to the stalls as a little body tries to slide out from under the door. Just before the child can escape, he disappears right back into the stall with a shriek.

 _“ – oh, no you don’t, get back here –_ “

“I’ll do a few extra shifts in the nursery,” Neten offers. “ _Please_?”

Folding your arms across your chest, you tilt your head up at Neten.

“Neten, do not make me check the logs,” you respond. “I am fairly certain you are, at the very least, _several_ shifts behind.”

Neten grumbles in annoyance before resuming staring up at the ceiling. In the communal showers, someone starts a rousing, off-key drinking song. At eight in the morning. Paz sighs. Looks like it’s going to be that type of day today, he thinks to himself. You lean over and give him a little wave. A giddy little thrill runs through him as he returns it.

“Paz, how is Zephyr?” you ask.

“Making breakfast,” Paz says. Then with a grin, he decides to indulge himself, “He’s following your instructions, so I made sure he knew where I keep the fire extinguisher.”

Terys snickers and crashes his spaceship again.

“I have been so nice to you, and you think to bring up my shortcomings,” you say playfully. “How needlessly cruel of you.”

This time, Neten takes part in the teasing, holding his hand out over your head pointedly.

“Yup, definitely a lot of _short_ to go around,” he remarks, easily sidestepping your elbow.

“ _Mir’sheb_ ,” you mutter.

The door of the largest stall – the one usually reserved for families with young children – slams open, bouncing off the tiled wall. All four of Freya’s children come stampeding out, causing a dramatic spike in the noise level. Steam curls out from the doorway as Freya steps out.

“LOCKERS,” she says firmly. “Get dressed _first_. Then you can go play.”

The eldest three obediently scamper off toward the lockers, where the floors are dry and there are warm towels waiting for them. The youngest - a toddler no more than three years of age - takes off at a sprint, throwing his pants into the nearest puddle. He dodges Neten and Terys before reaching for the waist of his underpants. Paz takes advantage of the child’s distraction to step in and catch him around the waist.

“Oh, no. Not today,” Paz says. “ _Buir_ said locker room.”

“No!” he screeches. “NO!”

Freya exhales and collects the now wet garment from the puddle. Then she comes to take the wriggling toddler from him, hefting him easily onto her hip. He screams in protest, but Freya keeps a tight grip on the little eel.

“Thank you, Paz,” she says. “Come on, Jer. Let’s go get dressed and discuss _where_ you learned the word no, hm?”

She balances the screeching toddler on her hip and takes him to the locker room. Then she disappears through the double-doors, and the noise level immediately becomes bearable. Neten nudges you with his elbow.

“Hurry up, short stack,” Neten says. “I have things to do today.”

You turn to him. Paz can _feel_ the mischief radiating off you.

“Paz, would you like to go ahead of me?” you ask sweetly.

Paz grins under his bucket. Terys snorts in response.

“Are you _kriffing_ serious?” Neten asks.

“Take as long as you need, _ner vod_ ,” you continue. “We are happy to wait.”

For a moment, Paz _wants_ to be fair, but he decides to indulge just this once. Besides, how could he say no to you? Especially when you have done so much to help him and Zephyr.

“Thank you,” he says, tilting his head down at you. “I really appreciate your consideration.”

“But there’s a _line_ ,” Neten says grumpily. “Armorer said stall-sniping is against the rules.”

“I didn’t snipe a stall,” Paz reminds. “Shu’shika _graciously_ offered to let me – her tired, sore, and aching _vod_ – to go first out of the kindness of her heart.”

He can see your shoulders shaking in mirth from the periphery of his vision. Neten sighs in exasperation, knowing that he has lost the argument. He slouches against the wall in defeat, folding his arms across his chest.

“Yeah, I guess you can go ahead,” Neten says grumpily, “You did just come back from a hunt.”

“Exactly,” you respond. “We take care of _vod_ , don’t we, Neten?”

Paz goes on as a smug grin spreads across his face. He won’t take long – since he had a shower last night, and he is not exercising today, he will take his shower tonight at the end of the day. He just needs to brush his teeth and wash his face. In the stall, he finishes his morning preparation, brushing his teeth and shaving off the last week of growth. Then he takes a long look in the mirror, reaching up to touch his cheeks. After nearly a minute of staring at himself, he comes to a conclusion.

He definitely gets his nose from his mother.

* * *

After a slightly charred breakfast, Paz heads to the workshop to begin working on the unpleasant aspects of their return. First, he needs to deal with Liam’s armor so the kid isn’t traumatized all over again. He commandeers some of the wooden boards and equipment. After a quiet exchange with Larin, the young woman agrees to help him make a wooden box. As he picks through the selection of wooden boards, he lets his thoughts wander. Ten years ago, he would have gladly thrown Liam’s armor straight into the lava river on Nevarro. If anyone had told him that he would one day be constructing something to protect his armor, he would have _laughed_. Maybe he would have punched them for the audacity.

But now, here he is, loading boards into the planer, all so Zephyr can store his father’s armor with dignity and respect. Once the boards are perfectly smooth on both sides, he loads them into the cutter. Larin types in the commands and closes the lid. Paz watches as the laser begins to burn its way through the wood. Liam and Zeli had jointly destroyed him. Cut him open to the bone. He can still vividly remember what he had seen on the couch – their helmets nestled together, brow ridges touching in a mocking kiss. It hurts, but it no longer _hurts_ the way it used to. It no longer _bothers_ him.

The machine buzzes and startles him from his reverie. He steps forward and unloads the pieces. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, Larin retreats to a respectful distance and busies herself with something else. He assembles the box, using the nail gun to secure the finger-like joints at the ends of the boards. Then he attaches the bottom. As he works on the lid, Terys approaches. He puts a bag down on the table.

“What’s this?” Paz asks.

“For your project,” Terys says quietly.

Paz pulls the bag toward him. Sheets of black felt. He looks up at Terys.

“How did you know?” Paz asks.

“I thought I saw him on Nevarro,” Terys says. “Just a brief flash of his armor, at the end of a dark alley after the skirmish. Thought I was hallucinating from smoke inhalation. I forgot about it until Zeph came back…and saw him that way. Like he had lost them all over again. I also saw Armorer carrying the box toward the Forge.”

“Terys…”

Terys holds his hand up to cut him off.

“Remember, I was there. I know how desperate they were to regain their honor the first time around,” Terys says quietly. “I can’t imagine what it was like to be dishonored a second time, _without_ a Tribe to support him.”

Paz stares down at the half-assembled box and nods, unable to formulate a respond. He can still vividly recall the cold fingers Liam had wrapped around his wrist. Terys glances down as well and hums.

“You, _ner vod_ , are nauseatingly noble,” Terys says quietly. “A lesser person would have left his armor out to rot.”

“I couldn’t hurt Zeph like that,” Paz says immediately. “No matter what his _buire_ did, he doesn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire. He’s innocent in all of this.”

“As I said, you are _nauseatingly_ noble,” Terys says. “Zeph is damn lucky to have you at his six.”

“He’s a good kid,” Paz says.

Terys nods once before retreating. Paz resumes his work, filled with renewed vigor. This is the right thing to do for the kid. It only takes a few hours to fully assemble and line the box. Larin tidies up silently, shaking her head when he tries to help. He nods in thanks and heads for the Forge, carrying the box in his arms. The passersby recognize what it is for instantly and slow down respectfully. No one asks, and he offers no explanation.

He peers into the Forge, where Armorer is currently working on repairing someone’s cuirass. A thick gouge slices across the backside. Armorer looks up at him, helmet tilting ever so slightly as she does a subtle once-over of him.

“Paz,” she says. “Close the blast shutters, please.”

After setting the box down, Paz obeys, turning to the heavy door behind him. Even with his immense strength, it takes a few heaves to get the door rolling along its track. The wheels shriek in protest, causing several heads to poke out of doorways. Paz almost tells them off for being nosy busybodies. Everyone knows that when the blast shutters are closed, something important is happening. At the very least, someone is getting their _shebs_ reamed out. Paz manages to get it shut most of the way before it refuses to budge any further.

“That should be fine,” she says. “Take a seat.”

Paz gingerly sits down on one of her stools. It squeaks under his weight. He watches as she turns the plate over to examine some of the anchor points.

“What can I do for you today?” she asks.

“Easy thing first?”

“Easy thing first,” she repeats, nodding at him.

“I was thinking about taking a week to look after Zephyr,” he says. “He’s having a hard time coping right now. I’d like to be here to help him out. Would you be okay with that?”

“Are you going to take time to look after yourself as well?” she responds, turning the question back around on him.

“I’m operating at one-hundred percent,” Paz starts to say, but she gives him a glare he can feel through her visor, and he quickly amends his statement, “What I mean to say is that I’m fine. I got plenty of sleep last night.”

She picks up a small crucible and begins pouring thin streams of molten _beskar_ into the gouges on the cuirass – temporary patches until the hunter in question has time to wait for their plate to be melted down and fully recast.

“By plenty of sleep, do you mean at least seven hours?” she asks conversationally.

Paz grimaces. He should have known better than to try and misdirect Armorer, especially since she knows him better than anyone else ever could.

“I got about four hours,” he admits.

“You did not get enough sleep, then.”

“It’s more than I usually get,” he tries to argue. “I just want to make sure Zephyr is okay. He’s the one who needs – “

“What use are you to Zephyr if you are not operating at one-hundred percent?” she asks.

He exhales.

“Armorer, I’m fine,” he insists. “The kid is my priority right now. I can always take a nap.”

She ignores him, which is not entirely unexpected.

“You will stay until you can tell me that you have managed at least seven continuous hours of sleep,” she responds. “I also expect you to eat three full meals each day you are here. No more protein bars or energy drinks.”

“But – “

She looks up at him, head tilted in that way that lets him know she is not going to change her mind, and that further arguing will not end well.

“I will involve Doctor Shen if I must,” she warns.

It will not end well at all.

“Seven continuous hours of sleep it is, then,” he says, holding his hands up in defeat. “Three full meals a day, no living off protein bars and energy drinks.”

She nods once and returns to the armor, using a titanium-tipped chisel to scrape away the excess _beskar_ , tipping the filings back into the crucible. He watches her work – she is light on her feet, the sounds of her footsteps barely audible to him. Each movement is calculated, carefully deliberated to prevent senseless overexertion. Suddenly, he is reminded of his mother, who was as graceful as she was powerful. He shakes his head slightly to himself – there is no sense in wasting Armorer’s time.

Now, the hard thing.

Liam’s insignia and armor.

“Armorer, can I ask you exactly what Liam did with his clan insignia? What does it mean for Zephyr?”

Armorer’s hands falter.

She places the cuirass and her tools on the table. Then she rests the crucible on the inner lip of the forge. After that, she comes to sit with him, bringing the scent of smoke and the tang of hot metal with her. Her back is ramrod straight, her hands toying with the edge of her work apron. She almost seems nervous, he realizes.

“You know what it means to declare a parent _dar’buir_ , yes?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Paz says, grimacing to himself. 

He could not imagine failing a child so badly that they disown him as a parent, severing all ties to him. However, he knows that what Liam had done was not declaring his parents _dar’buir_.

“When a child declares their parent _dar’buir_ , they lose the parent, not the clan affiliation or their Tribe,” Armorer says. “They sever the relationship with the _person_ , not the family. By removing his clan insignia, I believe Liam meant to sever himself from his entire family, Zeli and Zephyr included.”

A pit begins to gnaw deep in his belly, filling him with a sense of dread.

“What does that mean for Zephyr?”

“I spoke with Dezha and Hannah. As head of his clan and family, we believe Liam meant to erase his identity entirely.”

“To make sure that Zeli and Zephyr didn’t suffer the consequences of his actions,” Paz concludes.

Armorer nods once.

“If we interpret his actions through his tribe of origin’s customs, this means that Zephyr has no name and no clan of his own,” Armorer says. “Liam did not anticipate Zeli going off to march before him. I believe he assumed that Zephyr would have his mother’s name and clan as his own.”

“He has us,” Paz says. His next statement is more of a question, “It will not affect his life here.”

It absolutely will not, Paz thinks to himself. If anyone says anything about Zephyr’s lack of last name, he will simply need to beat sense into their thick skulls. Tribe is tribe, and the lack of name will never change that.

“Absolutely not. We do not place that level of importance on a family name,” Armorer says. “However, there are some tribes who _will_ want to know why he has no name or clan of his own, especially if he wishes to marry or join another tribe – “

He cuts her off, not willing to hear more.

“Well, we will help him make one of his own,” Paz says immediately, mind leaping to possible ways to help his young friend. “Does it have to be an animal?”

“Paz, that will not – “

He barrels ahead.

“If we need an animal, I know where I can find a _rath’tar_ – I’ll injure it and let him finish it off – “

“Paz, that is not how it works,” Armorer chides. “He must earn his clan insignia, whether it is his own or offered to him by another individual.” She stares at him. He senses she means something other than the obvious. “Zephyr must undergo a trial of some kind, something that forces him to reevaluate himself and his relationship with those around him. This trial must change his understanding of himself. The clan insignia cannot simply be _handed_ to him. Not by me, and certainly not by you.”

Paz exhales, heart sinking straight into his toes.

“He’s not ready for something like that,” Paz says tiredly. “This isn’t something I can really help him with, is it?”

“He is not ready right now,” Armorer says. “You cannot help him directly, Paz, but you can continue offering your support and companionship. Continue being there for him the same way you have been. That is all he needs.”

He nods. She continues forward.

“After consulting with the elders, I came to the decision to melt it and reform it. Soon, Zephyr will have a clan insignia to call his own.”

Paz tilts his helmet.

“How do you know – ?”

Armorer cuts him off with one raised hand.

“Physically, Zephyr is fully grown,” Armorer says. “Mentally, he needs to understand what it means to put his Tribe first. He needs to finish maturing. And for many, that does not come for years.”

Paz purses his lips. He knows Zephyr is an adult, but there is a part of him that does not want him to grow up _too_ soon.

“In the past, these kinds of events would send him into a downward spiral. However, today, he made the effort to socialize,” Armorer says. “He is trying to lift himself up, rather than allow himself to stagnate. Zephyr is trying to be strong for himself and for his Tribe. I think he will be ready for his insignia sooner than you believe, Paz.”

Again, she takes that odd tone, but he still cannot fathom what she means.

“I understand,” Paz says. “Does he know? About the insignia?”

“No,” Armorer says. “When he is ready, you will bring him to me, and we will discuss the situation. Do you wish to deal with Liam’s armor personally?”

“It isn’t my place to do that, Armorer. I’ll talk to him when he’s stable,” Paz says. He puts the box on the table. “Zeph shouldn’t have to see his father’s armor in that ratty old box. He should have someplace where he can store it properly. I know – “

Armorer puts one hand on his and his mouth snaps shut.

“It’s alright,” she says. “I understand. In time, he will understand as well.”

Paz nods, suddenly embarrassed. He looks away.

“Thanks. For listening. It means a lot.”

“As you might say, Paz,” she drawls. “That is my job. No need to thank me.”

It is _annoying_ to have his words used against him, Paz decides.

She tilts her helmet as she rises to her feet. Paz follows. Then he goes to open the storm shutters. It takes just as long to open them as it took him to close them. From there, Paz heads back to his room. Zephyr is upside down on the couch, head dangling over the edge of the cushions and his legs hooked over the back of the seat.

“My feet are not on the cushions,” Zephyr says, by way of greeting. “So, what did you do to piss Armorer off?”

Paz purses his lips. Of course, the gossip has already gotten back to Zephyr. Time to see what the idiots said.

“I didn’t do anything to piss her off,” Paz says, stepping over Zephyr’s boots. He nudges them under the shoe rack and sinks down next to him. “We were talking about you.”

“I did not do it,” he immediately refutes. “I’ve been here since…well, yesterday.”

Paz lets out a grumble of disbelief. Zephyr almost manages to look genuinely offended.

“Not this time at least,” he concedes. “When you’re feeling better, we need to go talk about some of the stuff your _buir_ sent back.”

Zephyr hums.

“Is this about the offerings? And his armor?”

“Yes,” Paz says slowly.

“I think I’d like a new set of armor,” Zephyr says. “One day. When…when I’ve earned it.”

Paz smiles. Armorer had been right. Three years ago, Zephyr would not have hesitated to deck himself out in a new set of pure _beskar_ armor. Now, he understands the importance of a warrior earning their _beskar_. Hopefully, he will not need to go through what Din had to earn his armor.

“Maybe keep some for the poor kids who one day call _me_ b…” He stutters. Exhaling in frustration, he signs _buir_. “I could have them do ritual combat for each piece.”

“Zephyr,” Paz scolds. The young man immediately looks contrite. “Why have them fight? They will hurt each other and themselves. Just tell them the one who does the most chores and childcare will get first pick. Use this to your advantage.”

“You are evil, old man,” Zephyr says with a grin. “I like the way you think.”

Paz chortles.

“I’m sticking around for a while,” Paz says. “Armorer says I’m not allowed to go out until I’ve had seven uninterrupted hours of sleep. Also, I’m not allowed protein bars or energy drinks.”

“Is this her way of forcing you into early retirement?” he asks innocently.

“Zephyr, I _will_ punt your _shebs_ into the lake,” Paz warns. “Don’t you start with me.”

Zephyr bursts into peals of laughter as Paz exhales grumpily.

“Brat,” he mutters.

That only makes Zephyr laugh harder, his face turning a brilliant shade of red. By the end of the week, Paz thinks he has slept more in seven days than he has the entire month before, even with Zephyr’s nightmares keeping him awake for the first few days. He knows the kid doesn’t want him to see him like this, so Paz always pretends to have been working on his weapons at whatever hour of the night it is so he can go check in on him. Zeph knows he’s lying his _shebs_ off, but he never addresses it. He often falls asleep while Paz talks to him about whatever he can think of at the time. Doctor Shen lets him have a very gentle sedative after the first sleepless night.

During the day, Zephyr does much better. He goes from three or four panic attacks in a day to just one. By Paz’s last day of looking after him, he goes a full twenty-four hours without a single one. After an assessment, Doctor Shen declares Zephyr safe to be alone, so Paz arranges for the rest of his things to be brought in. Zephyr is surprised by his gesture, but Paz waves him off. Wearing the helmet all day is tolerable. Zephyr feeling isolated is not acceptable. At least in Paz’s quarters, Din will have access to him. Paz resumes short hunts then, never wanting to stray far, just in case.

Much to the young man’s consternation, Doctor Shen refuses to sign off on Zephyr going out on another hunt, so he stays home with the Tribe. Even though it rankles Zephyr, Paz is glad that he is being forced to _rest_ and _recover,_ though that does not stop you from assigning him extra time in the nursery to make up for all his skipped shifts. After exchanging a few messages with you, Paz is pleased to learn that Zephyr has basically taken up most of the low-level maintenance in the armory. Paz has no apprentices to learn, so this is helpful to both him and the Tribe.

Paz also learns that you have taken Zephyr in under your metaphorical wing, scolding him when he forgets to eat, or when he wakes up too late. Like any teenager, he protests being ‘babied’ and insists on doing his job without having someone hovering over him. Of course, he _never_ protests getting the chewy, caramelized end pieces of the _uj’ayali_ whenever you make a batch. Doctor Shen also informs him that Zephyr has managed to gain much-needed weight, to his relief.

Four months after his first hunt, Zephyr seems to be in good spirits, though there are times where there is a darkness in his eyes. Doctor Shen is confident that Zephyr will continue his upward trend. When they finally deal with Liam’s armor, she will reassess the situation. Right now, she is comfortable with letting him go out on very short, highly supervised hunts with an experienced hunter. To his delight, Zephyr wants to go out with _him_ a few times. Paz closes the message from Doctor Shen, nodding in approval.

Dealing with Liam’s armor is not something Paz is looking forward to, but Zephyr will need support for it. There’s no way in hell that Paz will let him deal with it by himself.

For now, he needs to get ready for his last stop for this hunt – a trip to the market. After a few quick stretches in the narrow corridor leading to the captain’s quarters, Paz checks his itinerary. He has twelve hours to land, pick up grains, and check in.

 _Plenty of time_ , he thinks.

As he comes into range of Aeliv B024, he gives his identification code. Shortly afterward, he is given clearance to approach and land. After paying for his stall, Paz backs his transport bike off the ship and heads into town. At this early hour, the streets are only moderately crowded, so it takes little time for him to find his way into the market. The first stop is to speak with the dealer selling him the grains.

Paz parks his bike under the awning and heads inside. The inside of the shop is cluttered with bins of dried goods. He hears the thudding of footsteps on the creaky wooden floorboards. Orbes comes into view and gives him a grizzled smile.

“Welcome, Mando,” the man says. “Got your stuff right here.”

He pats a pile of bags on a rusty flatbed cart.

“Thank you,” Paz says politely, as he counts the bags quickly. This dealer has established himself as a trusted seller, though it never hurts to give them a subtle scan. Orbes doesn’t seem to be offended by his scan – he just waits patiently, thumbs looped into the pockets of his worn leather apron. Paz puts his scanner away.

“Look good?” Orbes asks. “We opened ‘em up and ran the grains through the sieve for you. Didn’t find anything bigger than a rock in there.”

It was a service Paz had not asked for, yet he appreciates it.

“Yes, this will do. Thank you,” Paz responds. “How much do I owe you, Orbes?”

“Hah, I finally got you to use my name,” Orbes says with a grin, showing off his missing canine. “Only took four years, right? Anyway, your total is two thousand credits.”

“Just don’t expect me to give you my name,” he responds.

“Nah, I don’t need to know your name,” Orbes says, watching as he counts the money out. “If it ain’t too weird, I’ve got to admit I’ve made up a nickname for you all on my own.”

Paz can’t help himself.

“Let me guess, some variation of big and blue?” he asks with a little sigh.

“Nah, it’s a funny one, I promise.”

 _Great,_ he thinks. What does an _aruetii_ consider a funny nickname for a Mandalorian?

“My late uncle was half-blind, you know,” Orbes says. “Worked on a dairy farm for his entire life, so he had multiple sets of work boots. He always ended up leaving the house in mismatched boots. So, we called him Boots.”

Orbes bursts into peals of laughter as Paz looks down at his greaves. One is yellow, the other is blue. Mismatched, even by Mandalorian standards.

“That’s a new one,” Paz says through a chortle. “I’ll accept it.”

Once Orbes verifies that he has gotten the payment, he hands over a paper receipt – as requested – and comes to help him load the grains up. Paz unlocks the storage compartment and they start loading bags in. The bike sinks slightly under the weight of the grains. Then he shuts the cover and locks it.

“Good to work with you again, Boots,” the man says, offering a calloused hand.

Paz almost hesitates, but he clasps the man’s other right hand for the first time. The man almost looks surprised, but he shakes firmly.

“Thanks,” Paz says. “Hey, I have one more question.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Do you know anyone who might sell sun cherries?” Paz asks.

“Sun cherries,” he repeats. “Never heard of ‘em before. You could check the big green stall at the end of the street. If they don’t have ‘em, they will be able to tell you where to go. If you want, you can leave your bike here, too. I don’t mind.”

“Thanks,” Paz says. “Appreciate it.”

“No problem, Boots,” he says. “Have a good day.”

Paz continues on foot. As he weaves through the crowd, he lets his thoughts linger. Since sitting down to talk with you all those months ago, Paz has come to enjoy your company immensely. Despite only having a few minutes to talk in person each day, he finds your perspective on certain topics refreshing. You also offer him a lot of insight to Zephyr’s behavior, which is genuinely helpful in dealing with him when he’s in one of his moods. At the green tent, he finds the exact fruit he is looking for, displayed conspicuously in a large bowl. The plump fruits are round, glistening like little orbs of pure sunshine.

As he draws nearer, he starts to smell the strong floral notes, so fragrant and heady it might be a perfume. He buys a single cherry to taste it, slicing off a small piece and sliding it up the front of his helmet. The flavor explodes on his tongue, so tart that his lips pucker and his mouth waters. Just as quickly, the acidity fades to a warm, spicy sweetness. He buys half a kilogram on the spot. Hopefully, you will accept his offering and allow him a few minutes of your company.

After the produce, he goes to find his offerings for the rest of the Tribe – three kilograms of candy for the children, a pretty green rock for Armorer, and a nice new metal spoon for Hannah. Apparently, you had somehow fused her last one to a pot. After a moment of thought, he grabs the last five in the display, just in case. He indulges in another hour of browsing before returning to the grain shop. Orbes waves at him through the window. Paz returns the wave, a silent thank-you for allowing him to leave his bike there. He returns to the ship.

This time, he does a deep scan on each bag. Nothing out of the ordinary. Good, he thinks to himself. Paz pays the droids extra to dump everything in the cold storage room. Then he packs up, goes through his pre-flight checklist, and sets course for home. He takes his helmet off and leans the seat back for a quick nap. This had been the easiest hunt he had been on in weeks, Paz thinks, lazily letting his thoughts linger.

Idly, he finds himself thinking about you once more, a small smile crossing his face. The fact that you have been looking out for the kid while he’s been away puts you into his circle of favored people. While most of your discussions have revolved around Zephyr, he finds you refreshingly well-read on many topics most others don’t really care to know much about. And even when you don’t know something, you ask plenty of questions. He won’t lie – Paz likes being able to prove that his last braincell, albeit battered and worn, is still functioning.

All too soon, the ship exits the jump, rocking gently as the sub-light engines disengage. Paz sits back up and puts his helmet on. It takes only a few minutes to guide the ship back home. He sets the _Desert Lark_ down and kills the engine. Then he opens the loading ramp and heads out.

“Hey, Paz!” Neten calls out. “What did you bring back for me, _vod_?”

“I actually got you something really nice,” Paz says.

“Really?” Neten asks in surprise.

Paz holds up both hands in a crude gesture, laughing as Neten jerks back.

“ _Sha’buir_ ,” Neten says, though good-naturedly, “Should have known better.”

“Damn right,” Paz responds. “Get over here and help me unload.”

Neten brings one of the hovercarts over. Together, they unload the grains while someone else takes care of his bike. Paz decides to leave the post-flight check for tomorrow – he just wants to relax a bit. He grabs his bag of offerings and goes to distribute everything. Armorer adds the rock to her growing collection with an appreciative nod. Hannah appreciates his offering of spoons, muttering your name under her breath as she puts them into the sink for a good wash. Then Paz lets himself into storage. He hides the cherries under a mound of bitter greens. No one actually likes them, but Hannah insists on forcing it on them all. Paz is certain that they will be safe until tomorrow.

From there, Paz goes to check on Zephyr, who is in the nursery for his assigned shift.

_For once._

Paz creeps toward the doorway to avoid distracting his young friend and nearly fails on the spot. He almost bursts into laughter at what he finds. Zephyr is sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with the children arranged neatly in front of him. Junior, the smallest one there, is pressed up against Zephyr’s knee, little claws tapping away on his greaves.

Ellyn is kneeling on the couch cushion behind Zephyr, a handful of brightly colored hair elastics on her wrist. She bites down on her tongue as she carefully adds another tiny ponytail to the tufts scattered across his head. Paz takes a picture. Just in case he needs a way to encourage Zephyr to comply with his orders in the future.

“I am not teaching you those words in sign,” Zephyr is saying. Paz begins to praise his young friend for being so responsible, but of course, Zephyr wouldn’t be Zephyr unless he did something to completely invalidate it immediately afterwards. “How about I show you how to pick locks instead? Then we can go raid _Ba’vodu_ Paz’s stash of snacks. I know where he keeps his chocolates.”

“Shushi says no more,” Ellyn says, still concentrating on Zephyr’s hair.

Zephyr snorts.

“Who said anything about candy for you?” he asks. “We’d be stealing that candy for me, Ellyn. Chocolate is for grownups, not children.”

“Can I have some?” Ellyn asks.

Zephyr hums in response, considering her words.

“Only a very small piece,” he eventually concedes. “Your _buir_ and Shushi would fight for the privilege of killing me if you get sick on my watch again.”

“Worth it,” Ellyn says smugly.

Junior coos and taps a little harder on his armor, trying to get Zephyr’s attention. The young man picks Junior up and stretches his legs out, setting him down on his knees. Junior squeals in delight.

“Alright, alright, you pack of gremlins,” Zephyr says. “We have to do something educational, or your _buire_ will skin me alive. What age-appropriate words in MSL do you want me to teach you?”

“Armor!” Junior blurts out. “ _Beskar’gam!_ ”

Zephyr raises both palms to his cuirass and pats twice. The child watches in rapt fascination before patting his chest clumsily.

“Two quick pats, womp-rat,” Zephyr says, showing it to him again. This time, Junior gets it right and Zephyr nods in approval.

“Good job,” he praises, making Junior squeak in delight.

“Bucket?” Junior asks, pointing at Zephyr’s helmet, which lay on its side on the ground.

Zephyr lifts both hands up, placing his thumbs against his jaw and his index fingers against his cheekbones, curling the other fingers in toward his palms.

“You can do a few things with this,” he says. “This means helmet as an object. So bucket. Sneeze guard. Pasta pot. Whatever you want to call it.”

With only three fingers, it’s a little harder for Junior to get it right. Zephyr waits until Junior has mastered it before moving on. He lifts his hands halfway up his face, then lowers them to where they had been before. “Donning or removing armor or clothing.”

Then he grins widely and swings both hands down, quickly lifting the right as if raising a mug to his lips. “ _Buy’ce gal_.”

Predictably, Junior – and most of the children – giggle and mimic Zephyr. Since they know that they are not supposed to learn that yet, they perfect the gesture nearly instantly. Paz almost groans – he gets the feeling that it will take _weeks_ to get them to stop signing for a _buy’ce gal_ during mealtimes.

“Boo-shay gal,” Junior mimics, repeating himself several times.

“Just do that when _buir_ asks what you want to drink at dinner tonight,” Zephyr says through his snickers. “Boo. Shay. Gal.”

“Boo-shay gal,” Ellyn repeats.

“Perfect,” Zephyr says with a grin.

One by one, the other children join the lesson, abandoning their play to go learn with Zephyr. Some of them know MSL quite well; others do not. They throw words at him and he signs it to them. Occasionally, he asks _them_ to sign words back at him. Even though he is teaching them…questionable…words, at least he is ensuring they’ve retained the material.

Well, at least he’ll get a good laugh when Din loses it tonight. He turns around to leave.

“ _Ba’vodu_ Paz?” Junior asks, signing _big blue_ next to where his _kar’ta beskar_ will eventually rest.

He looks back, curious as to what Zephyr calls him. Based Zephyr’s predictable sense of humor, Paz wagers on it being some variation of big, blue, and idiot. Zephyr’s hands move, almost automatically, as he signs two words – _unbroken shield_.

Directly over his _kar’ta beskar_.

Paz freezes in place. For a moment, he thinks it is a genuine mistake. How could it not be a mistake? Why would he –

“But isn’t that for your _buir_?” one of the children asks in confusion.

Zephyr freezes. He genuinely looks startled. Then he schools his features into a nervous smile. Paz knows then that it was not a mistake – that Zephyr truly sees him as a parental figure in his life. _Fuck_ , Paz thinks to himself, and he knows he needs to back off before the kid sees him.

“Exactly!” he says. “You are _smart!”_

The child in question preens at the jealous looks from the other students. Paz quietly backs down the hallway to the main junction. Then he goes right back to his room. He checks the time – four hours until dinner. He leaves a note on Zephyr’s door telling him that he will be taking a nap before dinner. Then he flops onto his bed and stares up at the ceiling. He is torn right down the middle.

Part of him is scared shitless at how Zephyr views him. It had never been his intention to step into that role of _buir_ to the kid. He has never wanted to try and replace Liam and Zeli or overstep his role as a mentor. He thought that he had done a good enough job keeping those walls up, but as he considers their past interactions, he realizes that he has failed miserably. As soon as they thought his _buire_ dead, he had immediately stepped in to provide for Zephyr, recognizing that the lost little boy needed stability. He needed more time to grow up, to adjust and learn who he is.

For years, Paz has been justifying it, always promising himself that he is doing the right thing for Zephyr. He has done all but speak the adoption vow to him. The other kids had been taken in quickly after Nevarro, but Zephyr had refused, demanding to be treated like an adult. Paz thought it to be him acting out from losing his parents, but now, he suspects Zephyr had been hoping for _him_ to offer adoption.

 _Fuck_.

Suddenly, he is reminded of the look that had crossed Zephyr’s face that morning after his disastrous first hunt – that wistful, bitter sorrowful look. Now, it makes sense to Paz. Does the kid resent him for _not_ asking to adopt him? Is he making things worse? Paz thinks back frantically, trying to find some point where Zephyr had hinted at wanting to be adopted, but he cannot recall a single situation. Did he _not_ ask because he was afraid of rejection? Was he afraid that it would be done out of pity?

 _Fucking fuck_.

That other part of him is _ecstatic._ Paz has always wanted a family of his own. Zephyr, although prone to playing too many pranks, is a good kid at heart. _Man_ , Paz corrects. He is technically an adult now. Any hunter would be pleased to have an _ad_ like Zephyr to teach and guide. Paz isn’t sure if an adult can even adopt another adult. He has never heard of it happening before. And even though Zephyr sees him as a father figure, Paz has no idea if Zephyr would want him to make it official. What if he _does_ ask to adopt Zephyr, but he refuses because he has waited for so long? What would happen to their easy friendship? Would he be insulted?

Paz turns onto his side, his thoughts plaguing him. He will need to ask someone he can trust for their insight. He wants to ask Armorer, but he knows that she will flat-out tell him to adopt Zephyr, as will Din. He just wants to talk without being pressured into a decision. He cares deeply for the kid, so he wants to do the right thing for him. He sits up.

He knows one person who can help.

* * *

Your back _aches._ Hunching over your table for hours at a time is _not_ good for your spine. Staring down at the table, you groan in frustration and toss your tools down. Everything has blurred into one massive mess. Today just needs to end. A little yellow dot blinks in the corner of your visor as you receive a message. At least it’s from Paz, you think to yourself. Messages from him are rarely rage-inducing. You open it and a burble of happiness lifts your sour mood immediately.

 _You hungry_?

The man can read minds, you think, opening the included attachment. Your mouth drops into a tiny ‘o’ of surprise when he sends you a picture of your favorite sun cherries, golden-yellow and still glistening from the wash. Without hesitating, you respond with an affirmative and a request – no, _demand_ – for his location. Then you start shoving your tools into the drawers, not caring if they are disorganized. Right now, Paz has your favorite fruit, and it looks like he has no plans of sharing them with anyone but you. Then you hang your leather apron on the hook by the table and make a break for sweet, acidic, _delicious_ freedom.

“Hey, Shu’shika, you got a minute?” Terys calls out.

“Nope!” you say.

“Emergency?” he asks curiously.

Normally, you would leave a note at your station in case you are needed, but you are not willing to risk being interrupted.

“You could say that,” you say. It’s not exactly a yes, not exactly a no.

Terys tilts his helmet as you hurry down the hallway. You pretend to not hear or see anyone as you make your way past the _karyai_. Not your proudest moment, but for a few minutes of peace with one of your friends to eat a snack? You are only slightly ashamed to admit you would do it again. It takes you a little bit to find him outside. When you come into view, he gestures for silence and leads you behind a boulder.

“Kids shouldn’t spot us back here,” he says.

Paz sinks down first in the narrow gap. You join him, fitting yourself into the little space that remains. Paz opens the bag to reveal the glorious fruit, glimmering like little orbs of pure happiness. You fight the urge to simply snatch them out of his hand and wait for him to offer you the bag. When he does, you take only a single fruit, no matter how tempted you are to just start stuffing them in your mouth.

“Where did you get these?” you ask in a hushed voice, reaching for the first fruit. “They’re perfectly ripe!”

“Aeliv B024,” he responds.

You almost ask how he remembered, but you decide to not push your luck. He will probably take it as an insult. You can almost hear his gruff, indignant response right now – _do you think I would ever forget to provide for a member of this Tribe?_

You duck your head down and slide the cherry up the front of your helmet. Sure, there will be smears of juice against the inside of the glass, but you do not care, not when it’s been _months_ since you last had a sun cherry. You bite into the fruit and let out a noise of delight as the acidity lights up your tongue like an arc of electricity. Then it fades to a rich sweetness that makes your mouth water and your teeth ache.

“They’re so good,” you say once you have finished eating the fruit. “Thank you, Paz.”

He looks away, clearing his throat. You grab another one and start nibbling on it.

“Yeah. Right. Uh.”

From your side cam, you notice that he looks tense about something. _Hmm_. Maybe bringing you the fruit hadn’t been an act of altruism, which makes you feel oddly disappointed. Now, you wonder what he had done that requires such a generous offering.

“So, did you buy these just to make me happy, or did you need something?”

He tilts his helmet questioningly.

“Okay, so you know, I bought these to make you happy,” Paz says. “But then something happened earlier today. You’ve always been good at listening to me ramble, so I’d like to get your opinion. You know, kill two birds with one…uh…cherry stone. Heh.”

You roll your eyes at how pleased Paz seems to be with himself for cracking that pun.

“Does it involve a young hunter who has inexplicably been trying to get me on his good side, as if he has done something he knows is wrong?” you ask casually.

Paz snorts and tries to disguise it as a cough. He fails miserably, and you get a sinking feeling.

“Yeah. You’ll see it at dinner tonight.”

“Great,” you groan in response. “I can only _imagine_ what he’s taught them _this_ time.”

Last time, he taught them how to build improvised pebble launchers with rubber bands. They had spent entire lessons shooting each other until someone got hit in the eye and Jalyn put a swift end to it. Unfortunately, he said for the kids to stop shooting _each other_. So now, you will occasionally walk in on a shootout between the children and whichever particularly bored adult they have chosen to be their target practice.

“Din’s going to hit the roof,” Paz says through a grin you can hear. “I cannot _wait._ ”

Well, Zephyr teaches them silly things. At least they are not outright _bad_ , you think.

“So, what did you want to ask?”

“First, I wanted to say thank you for looking out for Zephyr while I’ve been gone. I know how hard he is to handle on a regular basis.”

“He has his moods, but he isn’t that bad,” you argue immediately. “What did he do? Take your backup cannon out for a joy ride?”

Paz hesitates for a moment, flicking the cherry stone away onto the rocks at his feet. He inhales, then he exhales pointedly, looking out through the narrow gap between the boulders. From here, you can see part of the grassy field, where some of the older teenagers chasing each other with some of the paintball guns, running their own “drills” after lessons. You let Paz gather his thoughts. He sighs and shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts.

“Zephyr’s teaching the kids MSL,” Paz says. “When the kids asked what he called me, he signed it over his _kar’ta_ _beskar_.”

You tilt your helmet and consider his words.

“You don’t seem surprised,” he says.

“Paz, _everyone_ thought that Zephyr was your kid at the start,” you say with a shrug. “That’s why we always deferred to you when it came to him. It wasn’t until he said he had no one, not even a _buir_ , that we realized he wasn’t your kid. I asked about you. He just laughed and said it was an assumption that many others have made before.”

“Really?” Paz asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “I…I guess I did treat him differently. I still am treating him differently.”

You nod at him once. You are still surprised that Paz _isn’t_ Zephyr’s _buir_ , even though you’ve known them both for a few years now. Part of you wonders why Paz never adopted Zephyr before, but you figure he has a reason why. You know he’s a private person, so you will respect him and keep your questions to yourself. You continue, trying to explain exactly what it is you see when they are interacting with each other.

“You have always been very involved with training and looking after everyone here, but you are different with Zephyr.”

“…how so?” he asks quietly.

“You have always been hands-on with every child, but you have always had the role of _Ba’vodu_ to them. You don’t parent them – you only step in when they’re about to do something stupid or dangerous. With Zephyr, you have no issues with telling him what to do and when to do it. I mean, even now, people still defer to you when it comes to him.”

He stays quiet, watching as two of the teens go down in a wrestling match. The two of you watch in case you need to step in, but they sort their disagreement out quickly.

“You know what he’s thinking, Paz. You don’t have to argue with him to get him back in line. You don’t let him slack off. You push him until he reaches your expectations. Your pride in his accomplishments makes him light up with joy, whereas our praise just makes him shrug in response. He cares a great deal for you, Paz. And you care a great deal for him.”

“Am I being unfair to him? And to the others?”

You tilt your head, considering his words.

“You give people expectations and duties that are appropriate for their skill level,” you say. “Maybe some people would see you holding Zephyr to such high standards as favoritism, but I don’t think anyone here in this Tribe actually sees it that way.”

How could anyone see a _buir_ looking after their not-really-adopted-child as unfair?

“I did stay a full week to look after him. I’ve never done that for anyone else. Not even my own brother.”

“If you stayed a week for everyone who got injured or needed time to recuperate, you would be here permanently. When you said you were sticking around for the rest of the week, he almost started crying. It is not unfair for you to take care of someone who needs you, and I think the Tribe knows what you mean to him.”

He remains silent.

“Ever since I first met the two of you, he has always, _always_ looked up to you,” you say gently. “When he wants to learn how to do something? He comes to you first. When he needs guidance? He will walk straight past Armorer to come find you. He is at that age where most Mandalorians are off on their first hunts and exploring the galaxy. Stretching their wings, so to speak. And even though you have been there for him every step of the way, you have encouraged him to be more independent, to push forward and to keep growing.”

He is silent. Contemplative.

“You don’t treat him like he is made of glass, like some of the others still do. You treat him like the independent adult he is. Yet, Zephyr knows that you will be there if he truly needs your help. I think that the knowledge of knowing that he has _you_ is helping him regain his self-esteem and confidence, beyond what any of us could do for him.”

You swallow and continue.

“He told me about what happened on Nevarro,” you say. “He also told me some of what happened between you and his _buire_.”

“What did he tell you?” he asks, his head jerking up sharply. His posture becomes defensive, so you move quickly to defuse the situation.

“He told me that there was unpleasant history between you and his _buire_. That’s all. He said he would not have blamed you if you had never spoken to him or his parents again. Zephyr said that despite what they did to you, you _never_ treated him any differently. You treated him with kindness and respect. You were there to pick up the pieces after Nevarro and Somara.”

Paz seems to deflate as he rests his head against the boulder.

“He was in such a bad place when Liam found him. It took _years_ for him to heal from his trauma. I couldn’t risk letting him go back there again. I was scared shitless that I’d lose him, that I would fail to protect him.”

You nod in understanding, patting his hand gently.

“I didn’t realize that I had overstepped,” Paz says quietly.

You frown.

“You think you have overstepped?” you ask curiously. “How?”

“He had Liam and Zeli,” Paz says. “He had parents. I had no right to overstep the way I did.”

“Did Liam overstep when he adopted Zephyr?” you ask.

“What?” Paz asks, incredulously. “No, of course not. Zephyr had just lost his entire family. He had no one. Liam took him in, looked after him, and helped – _oh_.”

He falls silent immediately. You continue, hoping you will not upset Paz. But it needs to be said.

“He had his family of origin. He had Liam and Zeli. Now he sees you the same way.”

“But I’m _not_ his _buir_ ,” Paz says. “I shouldn’t have let him think that.”

You feel an inexplicable swoop of anger fill you at his words. Shouldn’t have let him think that? How dare he.

“Are you doing all of this out of obligation, then? Do you pity him for having no one else in his life?”

Your words come out far harsher than you intended, verging on pure anger. Paz looks up, bristling at your words.

“Don’t you _dare_ imply something so asinine again,” he says in a tone that chills you to your core. “I should have known better than – “

You hold your hand up to cut him off before he says something stupid out of anger, earning a growl from him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I overreacted,” you respond quietly. “Are you doing this because you care about him?”

“Yes,” he says curtly.

“Then why are you so concerned with overstepping, Paz? Why are you so resistant to the idea of being there for someone who _truly needs you_?” you ask, your tone carefully modulated to neutral.

“What if he doesn’t _want_ me around?” Paz finally says, his tone harsh. “What if he resents me for trying to replace his _buire_? What if he decides he doesn’t _want_ anything to do with me because it’s been four _kriffing_ years since – “

It makes more sense now. He is just as scared of being rejected by Zephyr as Zephyr is afraid of being rejected by him. You’ve seen the way Zeph tags along after Paz, trying to emulate him. It breaks your heart to think that the two of them are so afraid of rejection they would rather _not_ discuss the role they hold in each other’s lives. They are both idiots, you think. You interrupt him before he can dig himself any further into his pit of anxiety and self-inflicted misery.

“Paz,” you say firmly. “You are being a tremendous _di’kut_ right now. Shut up and listen to me.” He looks indignant. “ _Please_.”

“Fine,” he says.

“Love is not a finite commodity,” you say. “No child – no _person_ – could ever suffer for having too many loved ones in their life. Anyone can provide a child with food, water, and shelter. However, without love, they _cannot_ thrive. You _are not_ trying to _replace_ his _buire_ , just as they did not try to replace his family of origin.”

He remains silent. Time to bring out the big guns, so to speak. He needs to know what you all _see_.

“He has already had two sets of parents go on marching,” you say. “Do you think _any_ of those four brave souls would look down at us with anger knowing that their precious child has found people who love him as much as they did in life?”

Paz doesn’t respond, so you continue forging on.

“Do you think they would be angry that Zephyr has found people who want to help him become a fearsome warrior? People who are keeping him on the path that will one day guide him right back into their loving arms in the Manda?”

Your last statement is a bit hesitant. You know Paz is a warrior devoted to the _Resol’nare_ , but you do not know to what extent. There is something about his regard for his helmet that is not like the way you treat your own. You know better than to ever question his faith, so you will need to settle for passing curiosity and put the thought from your mind – it’s not your place to ask nor speculate.

“No,” Paz whispers. “I don’t think they would be.”

He still does not sound convinced.

“We are Mandalorian. Our definition of what makes a family is nebulous at best,” you continue, trying to make him understand. “He does not need to call you _buir_ , or _ba-ba_ , or father, or whatever else. All he needs is to know that you are there for him.”

“What if he just wants someone familiar in his life?”

You grit your jaw. Gods, grant you patience to deal with this stubborn man. He seems hellbent on trying to torture himself.

“Paz, you would be an even bigger idiot than I originally thought if you think that Zeph is looking for familiarity. If he was, he could have turned to Armorer or Din. He could have turned to Terys, Revala, or Neten. He could have turned to anyone else, yet _you_ are the one he looks up to. You are the one he respects most. You are the one he asked to take him out on his first hunt. If that doesn’t tell you that Zephyr loves you, I don’t know what will.”

He stays silent for a long time. You work your way through another handful of cherries as he thinks, tossing the stones out on the pebbles.

“What do I do?” he asks. “What _can_ I do?”

“You think,” you say, patting his hand. “Put that one lonely braincell of yours to work. You don’t need to do anything _right now_. But…if I’m not overstepping…I think it would be a good idea to consider bringing it up with him. Let him know – with actual _words_ , Paz – that you care about him. I think he would be pleased to hear you say it.”

The teens start brawling again. When they start getting out of hand, the one in charge of the day’s drill shoots them a few times to break up the fight. Then the two fighting teenagers stomp back toward the entrance, having been sent back indoors. You make a note to talk to the one in charge to find out what happened.

“So, do what’s best for Zeph,” he murmurs.

Gods, grant their patience. At this point, you wonder if Paz has a complex of some kind where he feels he must put everyone else before himself. Then you falter. He probably does need to know that his needs are important, too.

“You do what’s best for _both_ of you,” you correct. “Your opinion is just as important as his is, Paz. Do not let yourself be swayed by what others may think or expect from you. The only people who get to have opinions on this discussion are you and Zephyr.”

He nods.

“What do you need?” you ask him. “How can I help you?”

“Me?” he repeats.

You purse your lips.

“We have had this discussion before, hunter,” you chide. He shrugs in response.

“To be honest, I have no idea,” he says. “I just need to know Zeph will be okay without me here.”

“We’re taking care of him, don’t worry,” you respond. Then, noting his tense posture, you say in a soothing tone, “Paz, I know you don’t see it this way, but I think you’ve done an amazing job in raising him.”

His head jerks up, as if he’s startled by your words.

“What?” he asks. You laugh.

“You won’t change my mind,” you say to him. “Zephyr is truly lucky to have you in his life, you know that? You have given so much of yourself, so selflessly, to ensure he is happy and safe.”

“It’s my – “

“Paz, I swear if the next word out of your mouth is _job_ ,” you warn flatly.

He harrumphs grumpily, making you laugh as he looks away. Almost like he’s sulking.

“I won’t tease you anymore, Paz. How about we take a break from this mayhem?”

He turns his head to look at you.

“What?”

You dare to nudge him with your elbow. He doesn’t pull away from you. Inexplicably, you suddenly feel shy. Have you been too forward?

“I think you need a real break,” you manage to say. “A distraction, if you would.”

“A distraction sounds good to me,” Paz responds immediately, nudging you back. “What do you have in mind?”

Pure delight fills you – he _genuinely_ looks interested in spending time with you. There have been times where you’ve been worried that he sees spending time with you as _part of his job_ , but now, you genuinely believe he wants to spend time with you. It warms your heart.

“How about we walk to the river?” you dare to suggest, hoping your voice doesn’t squeak. “I think the _nayari_ blossoms are blooming. We could go grab some for Hannah.”

Paz turns his head to look at you.

“…did you melt another spoon?” he asks.

You splutter indignantly in response, mortification filling you.

“I did not – that was an accident,” you insist.

He laughs, deep and rich, throwing his head back in response. You can _just_ see the seam along the side of his cowl where it buttons up, where there might be a gap – you quickly force yourself to avert your eyes. _No_ , you tell yourself firmly. There are lines that you cannot cross.

“Sure, let’s go,” Paz says, getting to his feet. He offers his hand and you take it. Easily, he lifts you to your feet, steadying you with one hand at your waist. His hand burns like a brand. Suddenly, you become _very_ aware of how much bigger than you he is. Has he always been this tall? This… _broad_?

Before you can thank him, you hear giggles and footsteps.

“We shouldn’t, my _buir_ would be furious,” a voice says, giggling. “He says you’re trouble – “

“Your _buir_ won’t know if you don’t tell him – “

Two bodies come toward the gap in the boulders, foreheads pressed together, the two teens in question giggling quietly. They are so focused on each other that they do not notice you and Paz standing in the narrow space. You swiftly take a step back to avoid being seen by them - you had no desire to fuel the gossip mill. Paz notices your movement and swiftly steps in front of you, folding his arms across his chest.

They collide with Paz. As soon as they look up into his visor, the teenagers leap apart as if they had been burned. They stammer incoherently as Paz just stares them down.

“ _Alor’ad_ ,” one squeaks out. “G-good to see you today.”

“Fine afternoon, isn’t it?” Paz asks in a conversational tone.

“A-a great one,” the other agrees, nodding eagerly. “Wonderful afternoon.”

“It’s a great afternoon to get your _shebs_ indoors to catch up on your lessons, isn’t it?” Paz asks.

“Y-yes sir, that’s wh-where we were going.”

“Yes, math lessons – I _love_ math, don’t you?”

“A-always.”

“Then I expect to see the two of you working hard when I come to the _karyai?”_ Paz asks.

“We will study hard.”

They take off immediately without another word to Paz. You shake your head.

“Teenagers these days,” you quip at Paz, peering around him.

“You still up for that walk, or do you think we’ll need to supervise them?” Paz asks.

“Paz!” someone shouts.

You sigh in tandem. Looks like a walk is out of the plans. You nudge him with your shoulder playfully, enjoying that brief moment of physical contact with him.

“Looks like you don’t get to rest today,” you say. “Thank you for the cherries. They were delicious.”

Even though your stomach is _really_ protesting it all right now, you are happy to have been able to share some food with Paz. He nods.

“No problem,” he says. “Thanks for everything, by the way. I have a lot to think about.”

Then he turns and jogs back indoors to see what requires his attention. You, on the other hand, make your way to medical for something to settle your sour stomach. After a round of antacids, you go back to your station to put things back in order, butterflies filling your stomach as you remember the warm weight of his hand at your waist. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but it is nice to imagine that his hand had lingered for a few milliseconds too long.

* * *

[Bonus Scene, later that evening]

Paz grins to himself under his helmet. _Showtime._

Din steps out of the kitchen, Junior under one arm and a tray of his food in the other. Junior is wriggling, trying to reach the food, acting as if he has not eaten in weeks. Din sets the tray down and sits Junior on the table, letting his little legs dangle over the edge.

Zephyr steadfastly tries to _not_ look at Junior, even as his shoulders begin to tremble. Din does not seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. His brother lifts the fork and knife, slicing the meat into tiny pieces. Junior swallows the first bite whole.

“Hey, you need to chew, remember?” Din asks. “You have all those tiny, terrifying teeth for a reason, _ad’ika_.”

“To terrorize us with,” Paz mutters quietly.

Subconsciously, he rubs the spot on his wrist where Junior had bitten him for failing to put him down quickly enough. Paz watches from his side camera as Zeph starts to scoot away. In a flash of genius, Paz grabs him by the shoulder.

“Where are you off to?” Paz asks.

“Oh – uh,” Zephyr says, “Just out.”

“Junior, chew your food, not the spoon,” Din says, tugging the utensil out of his mouth. “Or _Ba’vodu_ Paz.”

Junior giggles quietly. To his credit, Junior chews the next bite twice before swallowing. While Din starts trying to open the juice box, Junior reaches for a bread roll the size of his _buir_ ’s fist. Paz does not know if he is impressed or terrified at the way Junior seems to unhinge his lower jaw to swallow the bread roll whole. The child brushes the surviving crumbs onto the table. Din looks confused when he turns back and finds the bread missing.

“You thirsty?” Din asks, stabbing the straw into the foil covering.

A surprisingly devious smile crosses Junior’s face. Paz holds his breath. Junior locks eyes with his father’s visor and reaches up to execute a flawless request for a _buy’ce gal_. Din splutters indignantly.

“Who – who taught you that?”

Without hesitating, Junior points one tiny finger at the culprit, Zephyr.

“Ah, shit,” Zephyr mutters.

“ _Ba’vodu’ad_ ,” he says sweetly.

Paz tries his hardest to not laugh. He doesn’t bother correcting Junior.

“ _Zephyr_ ,” Din hisses. “ _ZEPHYR.”_

Junior grins and signs for another _buy’ce gal_. Then he points at the apple juice.

“ _Gal_?” he asks.

“No, juice,” Din tries to correct. “Apple juice. Want some _apple juice_?”

Junior takes a sip.

“ _Buy’ce gal_ ,” he says. “ _Vor’e, buir!”_

“No, no,” Din pleads, “Apple juice, it’s apple juice – “

Junior signs for another _buy’ce gal_ and Din exhales gustily. Paz can’t help it – at the sight of his brother’s defeated posture, he starts to laugh.

“Zephyr,” Din says flatly. “I’m going to strangle you.”

“Aw, come un, _Ba’vodu_ Din,” Zephyr says sweetly. “You did say you wanted me to teach him how to sign. He knows the important things.”

“You had better be glad I actually like you,” Din says to Zephyr. “Otherwise, I’d kick your ass.”

Junior perks up at the new word to add to his dictionary.

“…ass?” he repeats sweetly up at Din.

This time, Paz can’t help himself. He breaks under the strain and starts to guffaw, slamming his fist on the table. Zephyr devolves into choking noises, too far gone to breathe. Din shakes his head at Junior, but it’s too late.

“Ass!” Junior chirps. “ _Shebs_!”

Din only presses his helmet into his hands.

* * *

Alrighty, folks! That’s it for flashbacks. This is the last one for this story! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando’a Translations** – paraphrased from Mandoa.org (except kaiidth, that was shamelessly purloined from the Vulcan Language Dictionary.)
> 
> Beskar – Mandalorian steel.  
> karta beskar – Steel heart, the hexagon on the breast plate.  
> beskar'gam – Mando’a for armor.  
> Manda – the collective soul or heaven - the state of being Mandalorian in mind, body and spirit - also supreme, overarching, guardian-like  
> buir/e – parent(s)  
> dar'buir – divorce from ones’ parent.  
> ba'vodu – aunt/uncle  
> ba'vodu'ad – cousin  
> verd’ika – little warrior, term of endearment  
> kaiidth – Vulcan for “what is, is”  
> keldabe kiss – a gentle headbutt, sign of affection for Mandalorians.  
> ner vod – my brother/sister/comrade  
> strill – Mandalorian pet/companion animal.  
> uj'ayali – Sweet cake made of nuts and syrup.  
> sha'buir – insult, like jerk but really strong.  
> ad – son or daughter  
> aruetii – outsider, foreigner, traitor  
> buy'ce gal – bucket of ale, like a pint, but a bucket holds more than a pint, sooo  
> vor'e – thank you


	9. Today is Our Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title:** Today is Our Forever  
>  **Pairing:** Paz x F Reader, mentions of Paz & other characters  
>  **Word Count:** ~15.5k  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Warnings:** Canon-typical violence, angst, descriptions of combat, combat-related injuries (though nothing graphic), cursing, death, implication of suicide.  
>  **Author’s Notes:** If you want to know the inspiration for this chapter, it is a cover of Queen’s “Who Wants to Live Forever?” by the Tenors. Also posted on Tumblr under @anxiety-riddled-mando.

**❤️❤️❤️** [ **This beautiful moodboard** ](https://huliabitch.tumblr.com/post/625843601786781696/you-reblog-it-as-many-times-as-you-want-im-so) **is by the amazing** [ **@huliabitch** ](https://tmblr.co/mz64nHKDGtiJG5CQQG4Wkfw) **! Thank you so much!!!** **❤️❤️❤️**

* * *

Stealthily, you creep down the hallway toward the exit, taking great care to avoid the others. Revala had volunteered some of her precious time off to come help you with your massive workload, and together, the two of you had gotten through it all in record time. You have no idea why she had come to help, but you do not question your luck. You have learned to never question your luck here. Peering down both sides of the junction, you dart forward, sliding into a shadowed doorway when you hear voices.

You love your family, but rumors had started running rampant after your disastrous date in the shooting range. On no fewer than eight separate occasions, you found yourself approached by a hunter, trying their best to feign only a passing interest in your hobbies, likes, and dislikes. Din – who still feels incredibly guilty about his intrusion – has picked up the habit of helping you fend off your nosy but well-meaning family.

Finally, when you come to the exit, you slip out, and hurry down the path toward the nook behind the massive boulder. Paz has arranged two rocks and a box neatly in front of the boulder. You notice several small empty yogurt containers in front of the crevasse and pause to investigate.

“What’s all this?” you ask.

“Looks like the cherry stones sprouted,” Paz says. “Figured we’d save some before the winter and see if we can keep them alive.”

“It would probably be cheaper to grow our own bush,” you agree.

“ _Much_ cheaper,” Paz laughs in response.

You find you don’t want to ask how much his gift had cost, so you kneel next to the tiny green plants and pick up a trowel. He’s already poked holes in the bottom of the containers, so you dump some pebbles into the bottom to ensure proper drainage. Then you start filling them with dirt. Then you carefully place the sprouts into the pot. They are only a few inches tall right now, but you hope you can get them to grow indoors. It would be nice to have a source of your favorite fruit. You just need to keep it alive for a few years. Tilting your head back, you look up at Paz.

“You think we’re safe from the gossipmongers?” you ask him.

“No, Jalyn’s probably waiting in the karyai for one of us to come back,” Paz says.

“Tribe,” you quip. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

He lets out a sound of amusement as he places a tiny, battered yellow lamp on the box. A moment later, dim white light spills over the box and grass.

“It’s not much, but we won’t need to worry about people trying and failing to be subtle about giving us privacy,” Paz quips, as he adjusts the brightness. “Good?”

“Good,” you say, brushing the dirt off your gloves. You kick some of the gravel into the holes to fill them in. Then you move the pots in front of the boulder. That way, you will not forget about them. Taking a seat on the flat rock next to the box, you address Paz once more, “So, what did you make for us tonight?”

Given the fact that you both wear helmets, the menu will be quite limited. But you do look forward to anything he is willing to do for you.

“My knowledge of cooking is limited to skewering meat and roasting it over a flame,” Paz admits. You smile. Paz can cook enough to stay alive, but it probably won’t taste very good. Well, despite your propensity for accidentally setting things on fire, you _do_ know how to cook decently well – one more place where you are strong, and he is weak.

“So, what did Hannah make for us tonight?” you ask, correcting yourself.

He laughs and pulls a few containers out of the bag at his feet.

“A light soup and a bit of wine,” he says. “Everything can be consumed with a straw, so we don’t have to take turns eating back there.” He gestures carelessly at the boulder and you smile. Saucily, you reach over and clasp his hand.

“Maybe in a few months, that will change,” you say sweetly to him.

His head shoots up.

“Cyar’ika, don’t tease me like that,” he responds.

You laugh and squeeze his hand in a show of affection.

“I’m not teasing you,” you say softly. “I…look forward to being married to you, Paz.”

“I’m looking forward to being married to you, too,” he says gruffly, brushing his thumb against your knuckles.

You take that moment to sit down, claiming the seat closest to the boulder. The rock can be your windbreak on the other, Paz can be your shelter on your other.

“So, is your face feeling better?” you ask. “It’s been what, a week?”

A week. Only a week, and you’re already so deeply in love with this man that your heart aches, full to bursting with emotion, each time you think about him. And to be honest, you have been thinking about him a _lot_. Your days have basically been spent drifting around on your little cloud of happiness.

“Yeah,” he says. “Concussion is gone. Neck muscles are still a bit sore, but that’s to be expected, considering I decided to land on my face.”

“Good to know,” you say. “I’m glad you’re not permanently damaged.”

“Me too,” Paz says. “I can’t afford to lose anymore braincells.”

Laughing, you take two of the metal straws he offers to you. One goes into the white wine, the other goes into the soup. You settle in next to Paz, your thigh touching his, as the two of you start working your way through the light meal. Staring at the grassy field, you suddenly find yourself thinking about children. Closing your eyes, you let yourself imagine the future pack of Vizsla brats tearing around the place. A smile crosses your face as you lean your head against his pauldron. Paz tilts his head down.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.

“It’s nothing,” you stammer out, looking away.

“Ah, no,” he says with a laugh. “What is it? Are you thinking about holding my hand, cyar’ika? _”_

You splutter in response, unable to come up with a proper response.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says in a darker tone, one that sounds like a purr. “Might you be thinking about… _kissing_ me?”

He nudges you ever so gently with his elbow, his hand coming down to hover over your knee. You lace your fingers through his, heart pounding when his hand touches you.

“N-no,” you stammer out. You rest your head against him. Softly, so very softly, you dare to confess your fantasy to him, your heart racing and your cheeks burning with mortification.

“I was…I was thinking about…maybe two or three Vizsla brats destroying this field,” you whisper to him.

He goes stiff. For a moment, your heart stops beating, and you start to panic, wondering if you have overstepped or offended. After helping raise half the Tribe, what if he has decided he is done? What if –

“Can I put my arm around you?” he asks.

You nod. His heavy arm wraps around your shoulders, allowing you to press into that warm, safe space against his torso.

“I have enough beskar for at least five,” he whispers back to you. “And I know of a few foundlings who need a family.”

Swallowing, you look up at him.

“M-maybe…maybe we could make one, too?” you squeak out. “Uh, at some point?”

He tilts his helmet down at you, clearly affectionately.

“I’d like that,” he says. “Just to see who it takes after.”

“Hopefully, it won’t have my talent for accidental arson,” you quip, turning your head down, unable to meet his gaze any longer.

Paz reaches up, gently tilting your face back up to his.

“No matter how it comes out, Shu’shika, it will be perfect,” he says. “Just like you.”

Your breath hitches as tears fill your eyes. Stubbornly, you blink them away. You have longed for this for your entire life – a half-dozen children, made or found or any combination of the two, raised in the Resol’nare, with your beloved warrior by your side. Soon, you will marry him, and begin your life together as one.

“Maybe they’ll be tall like you,” you suggest with a smile.

“Maybe they’ll be smart like you,” he whispers, leaning in. You tilt your head up and give him a brief kiss.

“Paz, I’m not sure where you got that misinformation from,” you tease. “Recall that I _do_ hunt on occasion.”

“And? You still have a few braincells,” he teases back. “Together, with your braincells and my cannon, we will be unstoppable. We’ll take over this Tribe.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter. Gasping, you smack his knee weakly, trying to catch your breath.

“May the spirits take mercy on our Tribe,” you say to him, and he dissolves into laughter once more. “Setting things on fire and tripping over everything!”

Each time you think you’ve stopped laughing, Paz will mention some clumsy act of yours, and that sets you back off. Your sides are aching and sore by the time you and Paz calm down, though you still giggle on occasion. When the food and wine is finished, Paz neatly packs the used containers and cutlery back into the bag. Then he turns to you.

“Wanna go to the river?” he asks.

“That would be nice.”

The two of you get up and start meandering down the path. As you happen to glance back at the field, you notice an odd sight. Well, at least this time of the year, you think.

“They’re out of season,” you say, watching the hazy wisps of blue light floating just above the long, waving grasses, like a multitude of tiny lanterns floating midair.

Paz stops to see what has captured your attention. The blue birds-of-fortune appear to be courting each other, circling each other in the light breeze. Just like how you and Paz have gravitated toward one another.

“Must be from a late clutch of eggs,” Paz says with a shrug.

You look up at him and your heart stutters. The moon has risen, bathing him in soft, golden light, outlining his strong figure. Closing your eyes, you carefully guide your thoughts away from that train of thought. _Be respectful of each other_ , your buir had said, _seek out their heart first, and allow things to settle naturally afterwards_. You have always interpreted that to include your inner monologue as well.

“Our verd’ika are going to be so happy here,” you say to him, slipping your hand into his. He squeezes. When you look back, the insects have gone dark. You sigh in disappointment – your voices must have frightened them off.

“Hey. Uh, I wanted to ask you something else,” Paz asks nervously. The sound of his voice chases all thoughts of the hauntingly beautiful birds-of-fortune from your mind.

Slipping your hand into his, you hear his breath hitch from here, but his fingers eventually squeeze around yours. He must like holding hands as much as you do, you think giddily to yourself, unable to suppress your smile.

The conversation comes to a brief halt as the river comes into view. Here, the river spreads out and slows, gurgling over the stones. He lights the way down the embankment before offering his hand to you. You use him as a leaning post as you pick your way down the crumbling dirt.

The stones crunch underfoot as you approach the silvery water, admiring the beautiful moon, golden-orange and low in the sky. Paz comes to a halt next to you, gazing up at the ink-black sky and spray of stars overhead. Not a single cloud can be seen. You almost feel small and insignificant with the sky above you.

“What did you want to ask?”

“So…uh…” Paz breaks the silence. “How would you feel about adopting an older kid? A much older one?”

You blink and look up at him. Two already?

“Another one?” you ask curiously.

“…what?” he asks dumbly. “What do you mean by another?”

Your head jerks up so fast that your neck cracks. Your jaw works uselessly for a moment before you can speak.

“Wait, you _still_ haven’t adopted Zephyr?” you ask incredulously. “It’s been _four months_ since our discussion, Paz!”

“I’ve been thinking about it. A lot,” he says a bit defensively. “I don’t want him to think it’s an offer out of pity.”

“Spirits help us,” you mutter, pressing your helmet into your hand. “He will _know_ , Paz.”

“So, that’s a yes?” Paz asks. “You’d be okay with us adopting him, even though he’s technically already an adult?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you stress at him. “We will adopt him.”

“Well, _I_ will adopt him,” Paz says. “You get to wait until we are married.”

You sigh at him. He starts to pick his way across the river, tilting his helmet lights down to illuminate his path. Halfway across, his foot slips. Letting out an undignified noise, Paz goes careening into the water, throwing up a mighty spray. You gasp in horror as he sinks like a stone. After a heart-wrenching moment, he sits up, water streaming out the bottom of his helmet.

“Are you alright?” you ask, making your way to him.

And as expected, your foot slips, and you end up in the water next to him. You get a good amount of water up your nose. After floundering for a bit, you manage to sit up. The two of you share a look and promptly start laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“We are truly a disaster couple,” Paz says, shaking his head.

“You can be ori’shuk then,” you say with a grin, as you get out of the water.

Paz snorts.

“Ori’shuk and Shu’shika,” Paz sighs. “May the spirits help our Tribe.”

This sets off a fresh wave of giggles as you imagine a pack of children tearing through the hallways and being underfoot. Garan will have _kittens_ when he finds out that the two of you are talking about further expanding your clan.

“We should petition to change our clan name from Vizsla to Shu’shuk,” you say, making Paz laugh.

He wrings a bit of water from his suit, but the damage has been done. He is drenched from head to toe. A breeze picks up and you shiver lightly. The water is tepid this time of year, but the breeze makes it uncomfortably cool. The walk back home takes less time, as you are both hoping to get changed out of your wet clothes soon.

At the boulder, you pause to pick up some of the containers. Paz grabs the last few.

“Hey, I want to ask one more question,” Paz says.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Wanna come into town with me tomorrow?” he asks casually. “Super easy – just a run for medical supplies.”

Your heart warms as you smile up at him, tilting your helmet.

“Yes,” you respond. “That will be nice.”

“Excellent,” Paz says.

You thank your fortune for the privilege of being able to spend another day with your beloved. Giddily, you look to the future, daring to hope for the day to come where you will finally be able to kiss him on the lips. Sweetly, you step forward, tilting your head up. Paz freezes, but he leans in and presses a tender keldabe kiss to your forehead. Your cheeks burn.

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Paz says. “It won’t take long at all.”

“I look forward to it, cyar’ika,” you whisper.

Then you take a half-step back – you have lingered in his embrace too long. He clears his throat and takes a half-step back, too. Then you go inside. The pots go onto the rack next to the hangar. Jalyn will need to figure out how to keep them alive. After a quick shower, you return to your room, and begin laying out your gear for tomorrow morning. Then you turn back the covers and crawl in. After pulling the sheets up, you turn over and extinguish the light.

Outside, the de’kath birds take wing, circling high, high above the forest.

Their cries echo in your dreams.

* * *

Early the next morning, you grab a quick snack and head downstairs. There, you pause in the doorway, taking a few moments to watch your beloved tinker with his bike. The doors are cracked open, allowing cool gusts of air to fill the cavernous space. Then you check the plants – some have wilted a bit, but the biggest one appears to be healthy and strong. You make a note to water them and head into the hangar.

“Hey, cyar’ika,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. He wipes his hands on a dingy cloth and tosses it aside. Then he gets to his feet. You allow him a quick hug. Then he takes a step back to look over you.

“You alright?” he asks.

You almost tell him about the weird dreams you had, but you decide against it. All you can remember is trudging through a muddy stream, chasing a pair of low-hanging moons. Even now, the details are fading away rapidly, leaving you feeling silly, so you shake your head.

“I’m fine,” you say. “But thank you for asking, Paz.”

He nods.

“Alright, let’s see what you’re bringing,” he says, in his Alor’ad voice.

Smiling, you turn to the table and obediently start laying out your gear for him to inspect. He goes through the weapons – rifle, blasters, three vibroblades, and plenty of ammunition. He hums quietly. Then he turns to his case of weapons and pulls out the blasters you had practiced with a few days ago. He then rummages through a bin of spare supplies and finds a spare set of belt holsters.

“Are we expecting trouble?” you ask curiously.

“We heard chatter on the radio,” Paz says. “Looks like two suspicious persons turned up in town a few days ago. Spooked Soren and his assistant pretty badly. Couldn’t tell me why. I think we should at least be prepared for a skirmish.”

You nod in agreement. Turning away, you undo your equipment and put the belt holsters on your belt at the small of your back. Once those are in place, you reach for them, adjusting them until you can reach them comfortably. Paz gives you extra ammunition and you tuck it into your various pockets and pouches until you are fully laden. Then you bounce on your toes a few times to make sure nothing falls off.

“I think I’m all set,” you say in solemn tone. “What can I help you with?”

“Ah, it’s not much,” he says. “Just need to get my gear on.”

“Let me help,” you say, moving forward.

You hope you aren’t overstepping. Handling another Mandalorian’s weaponry is an intimate act, one that requires absolute trust in the other person. Paz doesn’t stop you from helping him check over his weapons one last time. He does not stop you from reloading any of the canisters. He does not stop you from helping him tuck his blasters in at the small of his back, nor does he stop you from squeezing his arm.

If there had been even a single grain of doubt in your heart about his intentions toward you, it is gone now.

Paz bounces a few times. Nothing falls to the ground. He nods. Then he reaches into the nearly-empty case and pulls out one last belt of ammunition. He drops it around your shoulders. You huff up at him in annoyance, ignoring that weird feeling in your gut.

“Listen here, Vizsla,” you say indignantly. “You _invited_ me to join you. Why am I carrying your extra ammo?”

“Because you are wearing less armor than I am,” he says.

You grumble unhappily, but you adjust the belt across your chest, shyly peeking up at him. There’s nothing more pleasing to you than the sight of a Mandalorian carrying themselves and their weapons so confidently. It is patently clear that he is a skilled hunter. Paz puts the empty case into one of the side bags of the bike. Then he checks his fuel tank.

“Full,” he says. “You bringing a jetpack?”

“You remember what happened the last time I tried to use one?” you ask.

“Fair point,” he responds. “Well, if anything happens, I can just grab you by the back of the pants.”

You huff in annoyance at him, making him laugh. Din comes into the hangar, carrying Junior in his arms. The child lets out a little wail as he reaches for you. Immediately, you tut at Din, and scoop Junior into your arms. He wails again, hands wrapping themselves around your cuirass.

“No!” he says. “No!”

You turn to Din.

“He’s been fed, watered, changed, bathed,” Din says hoarsely. “Been up since midnight trying to calm him down.”

“Oh, baby,” you sigh down at him. “What’s wrong?”

“No,” he sobs. “No!”

Paz comes to rub the back of the child’s head, listening to another heart-wrenching wail.

“Numur,” Junior says.

“Numur?” you repeat, tilting your head.

“Numur!” he repeats, hammering his little hands on your cuirass.

Din sighs and scoops the child back into his arms. He shrugs.

“He’s been saying that for ten minutes already,” Din says. “I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me. He can’t sign it. I’ve tried everything. I came to ask if you’d pick up some medicine for him.”

“Aww,” you sigh. “Maybe he has a stomachache?”

“Maybe,” Paz says. “We need to get going then. We’ll grab some medicine for him, alright?”

Din nods.

“Thanks, vod,” Din says. Then he cocks his head slightly to the left. “If anything happens, make sure you aim away from yourself and Paz, alright?” Din asks teasingly. “I don’t want to hear about you shooting him again.”

“Nah, don’t worry, if I’m going to do anything to him on purpose, I’ll just set him on fire,” you say.

Din lets out a tired laugh.

“May the spirits help you, Paz,” Din says cheerfully. “Look after him, alright? Don’t let him do anything too stupid.”

“Din, you are the sole source of stupidity in this Tribe,” Paz says. “We will be fine.”

Din only guffaws. Paz grunts in response, elbowing Din none-too-gently as he pushes past him. Din only laughs harder. As you step past Din, Junior reaches for you.

“No!” he pleads. “Numur!”

“Baby, what does that mean?” Din asks. “Numur? Number? Nu’amyc?”

He carries the child back out of the hangar, his cries fading away. You feel a rush of sorrow fill your stomach. He must be in some serious pain, you think. Paz goes over his mental list one more time – checking weapons, ammo, and finally, his pocket for the bag of money. Then he gets on the bike and you slide on behind him, hands at his waist.

Paz pilots the bike out of the hideout slowly, carefully picking a good route down the rocky incline. You rest your hands at his waist, looking at the dark trees. The de’kath birds have come in from their nighttime foraging, inky-black feathers puffed up in annoyance as they watch you with suspicious yellow eyes. When Paz reaches the bottom of the hill, he pushes forward on the throttle, forcing you to lean forward, and you forget about the birds.

Once the trees become flat plains, he cranks up the speed, causing you to lean in further against his back. The wind whips coldly at your legs, like little pinpricks of ice piercing through your suit. As he drives, the sky loses its grey hue, brightening with the impending sunrise. When the first few little fingers of sunlight peek over the mountain range, the sky erupts into a vibrant palette of reds, pinks, and oranges.

When you lift your head to look, he purposefully slows down so you can enjoy the sunrise. By the time you get into town, the sun has risen into the sky, turning it a vibrant shade of turquoise. Marell is such a beautiful planet, you think to yourself, as you tuck your helmet back against Paz’s shoulder. You are truly lucky to be surrounded by so much beauty.

Paz parks the bike behind the bar and covers it with a tarp.

“I know the owner,” Paz says. “I did a favor for them a while back, so they keep an eye on my bike while I’m here. We will talk to them first, get a rundown on what’s going on, and then we’ll head into the market for the meds.”

“Sounds good to me,” you respond. “I can stay with the bike, or I can come with you.”

“No one will mess with it,” Paz says, shaking his head. “Come inside. Morros is kind. You will like her.”

He leads the way into the bar. It is too early for the night crowd to be in, so the atmosphere is relatively quiet and peaceful. Paz heads to the bar and you follow behind him. A woman comes out, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face freezes.

“Hello, Blue,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to check in and see how things are,” he says casually. “Soren said there might be trouble?”

The smile on the woman’s face freezes. Her swallow is visible from here. Your heart sinks as Paz leans against the counter.

“How about I grab you the usual?” she asks.

She disappears before he can respond. You turn on both side and back cams to start scanning the townspeople loitering over their breakfasts and beverages with shaking hands. Their faces look drawn, frightened, and no one really looks up at either of you. Surreptitiously, you let your hand fall to your waist, checking outside. Nothing. No one. Not a soul lingering in the streets. At this time of day, the streets should be filled with people heading to the market.

“Blue,” you whisper tightly.

“I know,” he responds gruffly.

The woman returns with a tray – some uncut fruit, a bottle of juice, and some boiled eggs. Her smile is thin and brittle as she puts the tray down in front of him, unshed tears glistening on her lashes.

“On the house,” she manages to say. “The second floor is open, if you want to see the sunrise. In your usual spot.”

She nods once and backs off, hands jerky as she wipes them on her apron.

“Thanks, Morros,” Paz responds easily.

He carries the tray to the stairs and carefully makes his way up. The two of you scan your surroundings, but nothing seems to be out of place. Upstairs, you find that the tables have been cleared to the sides, and only one window is open, facing directly east, where the sun hangs halfway between the horizon and its zenith. The rest of the windows have their curtains drawn shut. Paz slowly puts the tray down onto the table, body held tense as he scopes the upstairs dining room. He stays in front of you, arm keeping you back, as he takes one step forward.

The floorboard creaks, shattering the silence. Faintly, you hear a _thud_ from downstairs. Then a second, and a third. Then silence. You keep your attention on the stairwell. Nothing. Not even a voice. Glancing over, you see a piece of paper under the fruit. With your vibroblade, you nudge it aside.

_Canyons compromised, Gideon, trap, **RUN**_

“Paz,” you hiss at him, showing him the slip of paper.

“Shit,” he responds.

Looking to the window, you see black dots on the horizon, hazy and distant. They are several kilometers away, but even if you get back to the bike, they will overtake you before you get halfway to the plains. If the canyons are compromised, that leaves only the forest or town. And given that this is a trap, it’s likely that they have reinforcements somewhere in the forest.

“Oh, no,” you breathe, “Blue, we need to – “

“You take the bike back,” Paz says, as he ushers you back down the stairs. “They might be looking for only me – “

The dining room is empty. Morros is standing there, her jaw clenched tightly, tears streaming down her pallid face.

“They have my children,” she whispers in a broken voice. “They have them, I’m so sorry, Blue – I’m so, so sorry – “

“Run,” Paz says. “ _Run_.”

She turns on her heel and dashes into the kitchen, a low sob following her. You and Paz make your way back to the bike. The tarp is missing, which gives you pause. Paz reaches for the ignition switch. As he flips the switch, the bike gurgles. He tries to start it again, but the bike only shudders. Your thoughts race – you _watched_ him fuel it. Then you kneel and inhale.

“The fuel line has been cut,” you say grimly, glancing around the alleyway. Nothing but boxes and detritus drifting along in the wind. Even the windows appear to be shuttered.

“He had someone waiting,” Paz says. “Looks like we got here earlier than they expected.”

“Then let’s find someplace to fight,” you say, scanning the town. “There’s nothing here that’s really fortified.”

He pauses. You can see him thinking, running different scenarios, calculating which one has the best chances of survival. Even at this distance, you can hear the rumble of machinery, low and ominous.

In the west, you can see storm clouds gathering. The wind starts to pick up.

“Town hall,” Paz says, “It has granite walls. It might give us enough time to send out a message.”

You nod. Together, you and Paz set off for the town hall at a brisk jog. At the end of the street, you find yourselves stopped by a group of six armed men. They are just townsfolk, armed with whatever cheap arms they had at hand. They are covered in a variety of bruises. One has a split lip, the other has had his brow stitched back together.

“We can’t let you go further,” the one in the lead says.

“They have my wife,” the one on the left blurts out. “My wife – she’s pregnant – “

“If Moff Gideon has your wife, you will be lucky to see her again,” Paz says. “Move, or I will shoot you.”

The one on the left shakes his head, lifting his cheap pistol with trembling fingers.

“No, you’re wrong – he wouldn’t – “

In an instant, Paz unholsters his blaster and shoots, hitting him in the knee. You follow suit and aim for nonvital spots. You get one in the knee and the other in the ankle. Paz has done the same. He stoops down to pick up their weapons. Stealing the ammo, Paz nods to you. He leads the way at a brisk jog, avoiding the open spaces. He peers around the corner toward the horizon, where the sun has risen further. You keep watch over the alley behind you, but nobody has followed you.

“I count six heavily armored troop transporters,” Paz says. “Six TIE-fighters, two carrying AT-STs.”

Your stomach sinks. Each one transporter can hold at least forty troops, maybe fifty if they are lightly armed. A minimum of two hundred troops, a maximum of three hundred, depending on what sort of equipment they are bringing. And given this level of response, you are sure they are bringing heavy weaponry.

The two of you wind your way toward town hall, occasionally taking stock of the situation. A TIE-fighter breaks off and slows, heading toward the bar. You grimace. But there’s nothing you can do. Morros was told to run. Hopefully, she complied. As the two of you cross the market, you see people huddled in doorways, clearly afraid. The bakery door opens, and a man steps out.

“Blue, they’re – “

“We know,” Paz says. “Soren, get your family to the forest and hide the best you can.”

The man nods, a grim look on his face, and turns back to his shop. After climbing the stairs in front of the massive stone building, Paz kicks in the locked door and strides in. Nobody. It is the end of the work week. He glances left and right. Everything is so wide open – even if you barricade the entrances, there are still numerous windows.

“I will barricade the doors,” Paz says. “You check the basement.”

You nod and head toward the staircase, drawing your weapon as you make your way down. Briefly, you note that the staircase is heavily fortified, likely in case of a tornado. Most of the old buildings here have cisterns in the basements. They also connect to the flood drains, which may allow for an avenue of escape. You turn your infrared sensors on. The basement is broad and flat, with thick stone supports holding up the crushing weight of the building above.

It takes a few minutes for you to jog up and down the rows of shelving units and boxes. There are some air vents, but nothing that either of you can realistically fit into. No cistern, no drains. Nothing. Nowhere to go. You sprint along the perimeter, scanning for something that might have been boarded up, but there is nothing. _Fuck_. Nowhere to go if the two of you are trapped downstairs.

You make your way back upstairs. Paz is busy dragging a desk behind the main doors. You help him shove it into place.

“No cistern,” you say to Paz. “No connection to the flood drains, either.”

Paz grunts. He has dragged a massive pile of furniture behind the main doors. Fortunately, the lower halves of the windows are barred, so entry through those will not be as easy. The glass will not do anything to stop rounds or grenades.

“Back door,” he says.

Nodding, you turn to the back entrance and start shoving whatever furniture you can reach there. Paz knocks a bookcase in front of the door and takes a step back. Then he comes to help you with a big metal desk. You hear the whine of a TIE fighter flying overhead, rattling the windows.

“That’s all we can do here,” Paz says with a sigh. “If we need to come back downstairs, we’ll hide behind the staircase. It’s protected on three sides by a few layers of granite. It might buy us some time.”

You nod, your stomach sinking.

“Upstairs?” you suggest.

“We should be able to send a warning back home,” Paz says. “It looks like they’ve stopped at the edge of town. I think they’re looking for their informant.”

The two of you hurtle up the stairs.

“You take position at the east window,” he says. “Tell me what you see. I’ll send a message back home.”

You settle against the wall, watching the incoming Imperials, blaster held loosely against your chest. Scanning the edge of town, you start counting numbers.

“Six heavily armored troop transporters,” you confirm to him. “Six TIE-fighters, two carrying AT-STs.”

Adjusting your magnification software, you take a closer look at the AT-STs.

“The AT-STs appear to be modified with lower caliber weapons,” you say.

Why would they bring low caliber weapons to a shootout with Mandalorians? You push the thought aside, getting to your knees to get a better look. The first troop transporter opens and you start counting rows of helmets.

“Ten, twenty, thirty,” you say. “Forty…fifty… _sixty_?”

His head shoots up.

“Sixty troops in the first one,” you say.

“He must have a base of operations here somewhere,” Paz says grimly.

“Second one has sixty as well,” you say, counting the rows. “They all appear to have standard issue rifles.”

He has his datapad on his knee, plugged into his bracer, and a small antenna propped up in the window. You close your eyes and do slow breathing exercises to quell the knot in your belly. Things are not looking good right now for the two of you. Then you open your eyes again.

“Third one has seventy,” you say. “Looks like they were crammed up in the cockpit as well.”

That confirms your suspicions that Gideon has a temporary base here. Paz curses under his breath. “Sixty in the fourth, forty in the fifth, and another forty in the sixth.”

“Uneven distribution,” he says. “Must have EWEBs in the last two. Two each, you think?”

“If they were traveling in and out of atmosphere, that would be the safe maximum,” you say. “If they have a base of operations nearby, I’m going to say they just stacked them haphazardly in there, just like the rest of their troops.”

“Three each, then?”

“Yeah,” you say, scanning again. “The AT-STs are being set up on the north and south sides of town. Troops are circling around to the west. They want us pinned.”

This is _not_ looking good.

Fortunately, you and Paz had chosen to come into town on his bike, leaving the _Desert Lark_ behind with the Tribe. If things go sour here, the Tribe has seven ships to work with. Two scout shuttles, three small cargo ships, and two small freighters. They will be able to evacuate everyone and enough supplies safely. Home is four hours away on bike. Even at top speed, backup is at least three hours away, which means that the two of you will be left to hold Gideon and his cronies off long enough for the kids to be moved somewhere safe.

“This is going to be fun,” you quip at him, as you check your weapon.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says easily.

You check the windows again. Already, the TIE fighters have landed on the edge of town where the bar is.

“Looks like they only told him we were here,” you say to Paz. “Not where we went. TIE-fighters are down.”

“Can you confirm the numbers one more time?” Paz asks.

They’re lining up in their platoons. You count a second time, heart sinking with each row of white helmets. There are hundreds here, some breaking off to block off potential exits. The two of you could probably take a hundred of them on your own if it was just them. With the TIE-fighters, armed troop transport ships, and AT-STs, this fight is not in your favor. You chew on your lower lip as you tally the numbers up.

“Three-thirty,” you say. “Not including any personnel that might have already been in the TIE-fighters, piloting the transports, or in the AT-STs.”

“Sounds about right,” Paz sighs.

“Looks like a group of about twenty have broken off. I can see some very high-powered scopes on their rifles.”

“Snipers,” Paz says.

“Looking to take out anyone coming in on jetpack,” you remark. One by one, they shimmer out of existence. “Huh, that’s a neat trick. Looks like they have personal cloaking devices.”

“ _Great_ ,” Paz hisses. “ _Fuckers_.”

You crack your neck and roll your shoulders. Tradesperson or not, you are Mandalorian, and _this_ is what you were born to do. Fight, defend yourself, and protect your Tribe.

“This is going to be _fun_. Maybe, if I shoot them the same way I shot you, we’ll get lucky,” you say to Paz, trying to lift his spirits.

He snorts in amusement. He comes to join you at the window as they start unloading their weapons.

“Oh, look,” Paz says in annoyance, his head hitting the wall next to the window. He lets it thud against the wall a few times before continuing. “He brought _eight_ EWEBs with him. Not _one_. Not _two_. But eight. EIGHT.”

You purse your lips.

“That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it?”

He laughs. It’s a dark laugh, one that you’ve never heard before.

“Oh, that fucker knows I am here,” Paz says. “And he wants me alive.”

You turn your head sharply.

“A few months after Nevarro, while I was out on a hunt, we got into a skirmish,” Paz says, almost casually. “Called me out by name and said he had something of mine. I wasn’t able to get the Darksaber, but I did take out half his forces on my own before I had to fall back. _Fucking hut’uun_.”

Before you can respond, the sound of blaster fire shatters the silence. The bar is just barely visible from here. A moment later, the bar goes up in a gargantuan plume of smoke and fire, the explosion rattling the windowpanes violently. Flaming debris begins to rain down on the surrounding buildings. One roof starts to smolder, smoke spiraling into the air lazily. _Fuck_. You exhale gustily, worrying your lip you’re your teeth once more.

“Looks like he knows she warned us,” he says.

“Making an example of her? Do you think she made it out?”

“Example, yes,” Paz says. “Survived? Probably not, not unless she ran when I told her to.”

You watch as the troops start to form platoons. So many of them, you think to yourself. You have been in the occasional skirmish, but you have _never_ seen this many enemies in one place. You wonder how many times Paz has been in this situation. He looks so calm right now. You would not expect anything otherwise. He is Alor’ad, and combat is his specialty. The thought calms you immensely, even though the odds are overwhelmingly against you.

“How many grenades do you have?” you ask Paz.

“Two, same as you,” Paz says.

Enough to blow out two heavily armed doors. They won’t put a dent in their numbers.

“We could attach them to the support pillars and try to slip out the back,” you say, but it sounds weak to your ears. Immediately, you realize the glaring flaws in your plans. Fortunately, Paz doesn’t say anything about the weakness of your suggestion.

“We are surrounded,” Paz says with a shrug. “There’s nowhere for us to go.”

“Damn,” you say. “I was looking forward to Hannah’s stew today.”

He exhales.

“This is not going to end well, cyar’ika,” he says softly.

“I know,” you respond with a shrug. “No matter what happens, we are together, Paz.”

He looks back out over the street. Troopers have begun fanning through the town, kicking in doors, dragging people into the streets. Paz sits up, hands flying across his data pad. You receive a burst of static and three pulses, confirmation that your message has been received. Evacuation has begun. Relief fills you, even as your hands shake on the grip of your pistol.

Another burst of static. Four short pulses, three long, two short. Scouts have been sent out to map the safest route for the children. A pre-recorded message of a droid.

_Please submit clearance codes. Please submit clearance codes. Please submit clearance codes._

Backup is on its way. A short burst of a song you can’t identify.

_Hang on, we’re coming._

You look to Paz.

“They won’t get here in time,” you say quietly.

Home is nearly three hundred kilometers away. Even on a bike at max speed, they will not be here for nearly two hours. And that’s only if they travel across the plains, where any Imp in a TIE fighter can try to pick them off.

“No, they won’t,” he confirms.

Then something hits you as you peek through the blinds.

“If he knew we have people here, he would have brought more than six ships’ worth of troops.”

“He may know we have relocated here,” Paz says. “But I don’t think he knows that we have grown to number in the dozens.”

You nod.

“And we need to keep it that way,” you say.

From here, he can see groups of ragged-looking people trying to escape. You slide the window open.

“You ready for this, cyar’ika?” he asks, as he echoes your gesture at his window.

“I am Mandalorian. I was born with a blaster in my hands,” you say in a haughty tone.

He snorts with amusement. You line up your shot toward one of the back alleys leading away from the market. There is a group of elderly people and a few children heading away from the center of town. They will not stand a chance against the three troopers waiting for them at the end of the narrow walkway – they are holding their weapons up, and based on what you saw at the bar, they are not taking prisoners.

“Whenever you are ready,” Paz says calmly.

You take the first one out with a clean shot through the forehead. The second dies from a round through the chest. The third is only grazed, and you have to shoot again. This time, they go down in a heap. The teenagers pick up the blasters to defend themselves with. Three bodies, four shots, and one wasted round. Paz doesn’t say anything, but you know he was counting.

Once your cover is blown, the troopers start to convene on your location. Occasionally, the two of you move from window to window, picking off the ones getting too close to the people still trying to flee. By the time they have set up their cover around the building, you have taken out at least twenty. Three of those are snipers. Paz has most likely gotten forty or fifty. Moff Gideon strides forward, his shield emitter glimmering brightly in the sunlight.

“Paz Vizsla,” the man says, his voice amplified by whatever communication equipment he has on hand. “It’s taken a long time to track you down.”

Paz says nothing, but you can see the tension in his shoulders.

“Your people put up quite a fight on Nevarro. I must commend you for that. As you might have already ascertained, I am here to ask for your cooperation in locating your brother.”

Your blood goes cold. How would he know anything about Paz and Din being brothers?

Paz does not respond, though he puts up a hand to keep you from firing. Every second spent in keeping Gideon flapping his gums is another precious second for the Tribe to put more distance between themselves and him.

“I know he and the child are nearby. Unfortunately, he has somehow managed to hide the child from my sensors. If you agree to assist me, I will make your deaths swift and as painless as possible,” he says. “If you refuse, you will watch as I extract the pertinent information from your lady friend. I will give you five minutes to make your decision.”

_Lady friend?_ Gideon retreats behind his troops. They close in behind him, a wall of shining white armor.

“I won’t let him take you,” Paz says, his voice unnaturally calm. “I won’t let him lay a single finger on you.”

“Paz,” you start to say.

“I know what kind of torture he enjoys. He is a sadist,” Paz says quietly. “I know _exactly_ what he will do to you if he gets his filthy hands on you, cyar’ika. And I will not let that happen, not while I can still draw breath.”

Your stomach burbles uncomfortably, anxiety twisting your gut into knots. You had thought that he was here to kill the two of you. But he is looking for information. He is looking for at least one survivor. You crawl toward Paz, keeping low to the ground.

“He doesn’t know,” you whisper.

“Seems to be the case,” he responds.

In that instant, you know what must be done. Hold them off, as long as possible. You grab one of the datapads off the floor and check it. The holonet towers are still unhindered, you find, as you look down at the flashing advertisement on the page.

“They’ve blocked long-range radio communications,” Paz says. “But the short-range towers seem to be fine.”

“Holonet towers are still up, too,” you say.

“He thinks Din and Junior are hiding in town,” Paz says. “That’s why they are still clearing out the houses.”

Another house goes up in flames at the edge of town and you nod once in agreement. The next few minutes inch by slowly, each second an eternity that does not last nearly long enough. Your stomach has become a knot of pure fear and anxiety. A part of you hopes that backup will be here soon, but you know the idea is so far-fetched that it would be foolish to let yourself believe in it.

“Three minutes,” Gideon calls out. “I hope that you will see reason, Mr. Vizsla.”

You toss the PADD down onto the ground. There is nothing else the two of you can do except endure. He scans the troopers, looking for the jamming equipment.

“The jamming equipment must be on one of the grounded TIE-fighters,” he says.

You tilt your head curiously, questioningly.

“These are all older model fighters. To jam and then trace long-range communication takes a lot of power and bandwidth,” Paz says. “These are much older models. They can’t do both. At minimum, he has stripped two down to block communications.”

“Could one of the troop transporters been retrofitted?” you ask. “Well, no, that would not make sense, each one was full to bursting with ground troops.”

“The AT-STs are probably his insurance if we do somehow manage to decimate his forces,” Paz remarks. “The TIE-fighters are the best bet.”

“There are at least five on the ground,” you say. “Looks like he’s got one circling above us, keeping watch.”

“He’s not going to risk killing us both,” Paz says. “He wants one of us alive. There are probably decoys there, too.”

“Two minutes, Mr. Vizsla,” comes Gideon’s taunt.

Paz exhales, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“Hey, I have a crazy idea, Shu’shika. Real kriffing crazy,” he says.

“How crazy are we talking?” you ask.

“Wanna get married?” he asks casually.

As soon as he says the ‘m’ word, your head snaps up. You turn to face him.

“What?” you ask, almost incredulously.

“Well, we’ve been involved for a while – “

“Paz, we haven’t even finished our third date,” you respond immediately.

“…yeah?” he asks. “So?”

“And this is probably the shittiest third date in the history of shitty dates,” you add, gesturing to the world outside. He shrugs in response.

“You’re serious?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah. I mean, if I have to be honest, I was planning on asking you at the end of the month. I never intended to wait for _months_ ,” Paz says, checking the streets, as the troopers start to line up in the streets, forming walls of white plasteel armor. “Looks like they’re planning on using sheer numbers to overwhelm us.”

He pulls you against him and holds you close, burying his face into your neck and inhaling. You know he’s smelling your perfume – the same citrusy, floral scent that he had bought you those months ago. You only wore it on special occasions, but it still depleted so quickly.

“Cyar’ika, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, pressing your forehead to his.

“I can’t help but to feel like I’ve failed you,” he whispers. “I can’t give you that horde of Vizsla brats.”

You can hear the resignation in his voice.

“Paz, you have not failed me,” you say softly. “Whatever happens next, we are together. Remember that together, we are stronger than we ever could be on our own.”

He sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“No matter what happens, we are together.”

Smiling, you squeeze his hand.

“I accept, Paz. Just so you know, you’re insane to propose marriage to a woman you barely know.”

“And you’re insane to accept marriage to a man you barely know,” he retorts through his laugh.

“I know all I need to know about you,” you whisper, pressing your fingers against his karta bes’kar. “Everything you are right here, Paz. And that’s all I need to know.”

“Mhi solus tome,” he whispers gruffly to you, “Mhi solus dar’tome.”

_We are one whether we are together or we are apart._

You whisper the words back to him, your voice quivering a bit. Fuck, you’re not going to be able to hold it together.

“Mhi me’dinui an,” he continues, swallowing visibly.

_We will share everything._

You sob it back to him as that big hand constricts around your throat and stomach.

“Mhi ba’juri verde,” he chokes out.

_We will raise warriors._

You just barely get it back out to him. He presses his forehead to yours in another sweet kiss. You have longed for him to hold you in his arms, to give you the family you long for. A calm, unnatural silence fills your ears as you gaze up at him. You can see your own helmet reflected in his visor, your body distorted by the curvature of the glass. You blink away your tears.

“I wish we could have done this under better circumstances,” he says.

“But this is what we have,” you say, stifling your sob. “W-we are Mandalorian.”

“And we make do with what we are given,” he says.

“One minute, Mr. Vizsla,” comes Gideon’s voice, permeating the hazy happiness surrounding you.

You lunge forward, not giving a damn as you throw your arms around your husband and pull him in for a hug, pressing your body against his in a way you would have never dared to before today. He returns the embrace, one hand between your shoulders and the other hand on your ass. You rest your head on his shoulder, wishing for just a little more time with him.

“Ten seconds, Mr. Vizsla,” comes Gideons voice. “I cannot say that I did not expect this outcome. However, I had hoped you might be convinced to see reason.”

You break away at the last moment.

“I love you, ner riduur,” you say calmly to him.

“And I love you, ner riduur,” he responds.

Peering through the window, you watch as Gideon waves his arm. The troopers open fire on the building, advancing on all four sides. Regretfully, you part from your husband to cover the back half of the building.

“This is a hell of a date,” you call out to Paz.

“Hopefully, you won’t shoot me this time,” he responds cheekily.

Slowly, methodically, the two of you pick off the troopers that get too close to the building. When you can spot the gentle shimmer of cloaked snipers, you take them out. It won’t help you, but it will help the Tribe when they do make it here. This is not how anyone had wanted to face Gideon, but they still have the element of surprise. You know the hunters and warriors had been hoping to spring an attack on him, as soon as they could find his base of operations.

Gideon has probably tracked you here by pure luck. If he knew for certain that the Tribe was here, he would have launched a surprise attack much earlier. You console yourself with the fact that Gideon is probably operating under the assumption that there are only a few extra buckets nearby, that this is a temporary holding spot until it is time move on.

_Time,_ you lament, as you pick off part of a group. _If only there had been more time_.

The minutes tick by rapidly. The ammo drops faster, even with your conservative shooting. You end up taking half the ammo from the belt by the time Paz asks for you to throw it to him. You oblige and he catches it neatly. He attaches the canisters to his blasters.

“How are you on ammo?” he asks.

“I took half of the canisters,” you say.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Keep the ones I lent you full. Don’t go through those yet.”

You nod, and resume your shooting, aiming as carefully as you can. Each round finds its target – even if it isn’t fatal, it is debilitating. Even with your conservative shooting, your blasters are smoking and empty within five minutes. You tuck them into your holsters and duck as the next volley of fire takes out the top half of the window. The outermost façade is starting to crumble, you note sadly.

“Head to the staircase,” Paz says. “This won’t hold for much longer. I’m going to try to take out one of the EWEBs with a grenade. It’s really close. I think I can hit it.”

You nod and unsheathe your vibroblade, taking up post in front of the staircase. Glass shatters as Paz breaks the window. Then he lobs a grenade through it. It goes off with a startling boom. Debris _pings_ against the windows.

“YES!” he bellows, ducking back down. “I am fucking _amazing_. Tell me I’m amazing, cyar’ika.”

You burst into laughter.

“You are the most amazing riduur and verd that a woman could ever want,” you call back at him.

A footstep on the lower landing makes you cock your head. You want to reach for the blasters, but you refrain. Listening carefully, you think there might be three of them. Creeping down, you shift your weight carefully to avoid alerting them. Then the barrel of a weapon comes into view. You lunge, knocking it up with your bracer and it goes off. Then you stab viciously with your vibroblade.

Using the corpse as cover, you kick it down the stairs, knocking his comrades down into a heap. You continue your forward momentum, stabbing and slicing your way through the other two. Ducking down, you grab their weapons. Already half-empty, but it’s badly needed ammunition. You use the rifles to kill the last six in quick succession.

“Shu’shika,” Paz calls out. “I have three quarters of a tank left. I want you to take my jetpack and go.”

“And what will I do when they catch up to me?” you ask.

“You have my blasters,” he says. “If there is a chance that one of us can survive – “

“Paz – “

A tremendous explosion rocks the ground under your feet. Knocked off balance, you slam head-first into the wall with a grunt. Your ears ring as you try to blink the stars in your eyes away. The western side of the building has basically collapsed in. As you try to regain your bearings, a trooper comes into view, lifting his weapon.

_Nine_. You had killed _nine_ when they come in groups of _ten._ And you had just made the rookie mistake of letting your guard down.

_Shit_ , you’re in a bad position on the stairs – off balance and completely exposed on one side.

You throw your knife reflexively just as he fires his weapon. Your aim is true, and your blade finds his throat, throwing up a spray of red. Unfortunately, his aim is as good as yours, and his round finds your unarmored side, tearing through you in a burst of flaming hot agony. You muffle your cry of pain the best you can, leaning heavily against the wall.

You look down. Blood is already starting to soak your suit.

_Fuck_.

No medical kit. Glancing around, you look for something you can use to staunch your wound. There are wall hangings on the near wall, so you hobble to them, breathing through the agony. It _hurts_ to reach up, but you give it a good tug. It resists a bit but yields, fluttering down around your shoulders. With your vibroblade, you cut off strips of material.

Carefully, you peel your abdominal armor back and wrap the material around your middle. Then, with shaking fingers, you tie it in place with the long strips. _Fuck_ , it hurts, you think, as you tighten the leather belts keeping your abdominal plate attached to your cuirass. Shaking your head, you retreat to the staircase to wait, but no more Troopers come.

They must have been able to get in before the western hall collapsed.

Paz comes thundering down the splintered stairs after you. He does not need to tell you where to go. You limp your way down, checking for any other lurking Imps, breathing your way through the fire burning through your side. Each jarring step feels like another blast. But it seems to be fading now.

Good or bad, you are not sure.

“Start setting up the grenades on the pillar,” Paz says. “Put them all on this one right here. It looks like it has been damaged already.”

He holsters blasters and switches to the cannon. You obey as he keeps vigil at the top of the staircase, hobbling down the stairs. You keep your weapons up and at the ready. No Imps here. They must have been the first to breach the doors. Holstering your weapons, you start doing as Paz instructed.

You strap the last three grenades on the support, hoping it will be enough to trigger the chain reaction Paz has been hoping for. It should be enough to bring down the entire building, you think grimly. Hopefully, you’ll be able to take a good number of these fuckers out with you. Every dead trooper now is one less for your people to deal with. Maybe you might even get another one of the EWEBs in the process. Paz’s cannon whines as it charges down.

“Shu’shika.”

“Yes, Paz?” you ask, looking up at him.

He turns his attention to the still-smoking cannon in his hands.

“I want you to take my jetpack and run. No matter what you see or hear, don’t look back. Don’t stop running.”

Staring up at him, you find you wish the Trooper had shot you in the heart instead. It would hurt less than seeing your proud warrior so resigned to dying here.

_Alone_.

“Did you hear me?” he asks, his voice cracking.

“I can’t do that, Paz,” you whisper.

“Please,” Paz says quietly. “Please go. For me.”

Before you can respond, you hear another _boom_ from upstairs. He opens fire again. You lean heavily against the wall, your head swimming. After a few seconds – or maybe minutes, it’s all a haze right now – he looks back down at you.

“There’s no point in both of us dying,” Paz says, as he tries to convince you to leave. “Please take my jetpack and go. I have a quarter tank left. You weigh less than I do, it will be enough to get you into the forest, you will have the chance to escape – “

You shake your head. He lets out a noise of frustration.

“Cyar’ika, if you can get back to Zeph,” he pleads. “He needs you – “

“I won’t make it back,” you say softly.

“You can’t know that,” he says stubbornly. “There’s a chance they won’t notice you – “

“Paz,” you say, your voice shaking. “I was shot. A few minutes ago. Bastard got lucky.”

He immediately stops shooting and comes down the stairs. When he sees the fabric wrapped around your middle, stained with your blood, he lets out a noise that breaks your heart.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asks, his voice breaking. “Why didn’t you tell me – we could have looked for a med kit – “

“Because our job is to make noise,” you choke out. “Our job is to make sure our young ones can survive, even if it means giving up our own future together.”

Paz stares down at the cannon in his hands. Then he so very slowly nods in agreement.

“You are right,” he says, his voice breaking. “We fight, and we protect our Tribe.”

Another boom. You exhale as you stare up at the ceiling.

“We might have a few minutes before they get through the furniture,” you say softly. “Paz, please call Zephyr. Let him _know._ Please.”

He comes to you and wraps his arm around your middle. You didn’t even realize you had been leaning so heavily against the wall. Gently, Paz helps you limp toward the corner furthest from the staircase. The debris has blocked off entry from that side of the building, but it won’t take long for them to break through, especially if they have the EWEBs to chew through the debris.

“We’ll try to use the holonet – try to piggyback the signal – “ he mutters to himself.

In the corner, you sink down against the wall between two massive desks, sighing as you take a much needed break. Another explosion rocks the ground and the ceiling nearest the staircase starts to collapse. Paz sinks down next to you. He takes out his datapad and antenna once more.

* * *

Zephyr cracks his eyes open, grimacing at the shrill screeching emanating from his helmet. Reaching over, he blindly feels along the sheets until his fingers brush up against the cool beskar, and he pulls it to himself.

“Alarm off,” he croaks out, rubbing his eyes.

The screeching dies away. He desperately wants to linger in bed, but he has a list of duties as long as he is tall. And if Shu’shika gets back, and he _hasn’t_ tidied up his mess, he might as well build his own funeral pyre. As he is pulling his cuirass on, he hears a pounding at the door. A weird feeling takes root in his stomach as he strides forward. Zephyr flings the door open.

“Paz and Shu’shika,” Terys pants out. “Ambushed by Imps in town – we need to _move_ – “

“Go put your armor on,” Revala says, as the alarm goes off.

Zephyr sprints back to the bedroom and finishes dressing himself with shaking fingers. How did the Imps track them down? Garan and the others were downright _paranoid_ about planning their routes. They go into town once a _year_. There is no way they could have known that their Tribe was hiding _here_.

It takes him thirty-three seconds to armor up. Then he exits and heads for the hangar, looking for someone to give him his orders amidst the chaos that has seized his Tribe.

“Zephyr, go to the nursery,” Armorer orders from the karyai. “Bring them to the hangar. We will be convening there.”

“Aye,” he responds, and he hurtles back toward the nursery, his long legs eating up the distance easily. Zephyr skids around the corner. He finds a small group of teens and children.

“Grab the ones too small to walk,” he orders. “The rest of you, grab as many of the bags as you can.”

The room dissolves into chaos. He throws himself into it, looping three bags over his shoulders. He counts them. There are only eight here. The rest are probably with their buire, he thinks. Ellyn picks up Paji, cradling his head against her shoulder. The baby is alarmingly large in her arms, but she stares at him with a determined glint in her eyes. He nods at her, scooping the nearest child into his arms.

“Let’s go,” he says. “Quickly, but do not run.”

It takes much longer to get back. By the time he gets the group of eight – he counts again – back to the hangar, the adults have started loading supplies into the two largest ships. Once the children are corralled into the center of the hanger, surrounded by adults, he drops the bags and starts helping wheel supplies into the _Desert Lark_.

Then his helmet chirps, alerting him to an incoming message. He checks the source. It’s from…the holonet? He opens the message in privacy mode - _Unbroken shield, incoming call_ – and he inhales sharply. Joy fills him, joy at the knowledge that Paz is alive and able to message. Anxiety sends a jolt of ice right into his belly. Why hadn’t he brought it up sooner? Zephyr’s helmet chirps a second time. He answers the call just as Tyki gets her shuttle started.

_“ – Zeph?”_

The familiar baritone from his audials almost makes his knees give out.

“Paz,” he croaks out. “Paz, what’s going on? Where are you?”

Terys whirls around sharply. Revala takes the cart from him, pushing it up the inclined ramp. He notes the children are watching him with wide eyes, clearly worried for their Ba’vodu. Terys gently guides him away from them, as if he knows something that Zephyr does not. Zephyr’s chest is heaving – it’s so hard to breathe, his heart _hurts_ , and his eyes burn, but he’s so, so happy just to hear Paz’s voice.

_“We’re piggybacking off holonet signal_ ,” Paz says _. “Should be able to talk for a few minutes. How is evacuation going?”_

Zephyr hears distant popping and rumbling. Then a nearby crash and a curse from your lips.

“We’re getting the kids on the ship,” he croaks out, looking at the chaos surrounding him. “Right now. We’re almost out – just need some food and supplies.”

“ _I’m so proud of you, Zeph,”_ Paz murmurs.

“Save that for when you get back here,” he chokes out, as the sound of Paz’s breathing becomes labored. “ _Please_.”

Another few moments of silence. Another crash.

“Paz?” he pleads. “ _Paz_. Please don’t, please – “ To his utter shame, his voice cracks.

_“Kid, you know I will never lie to you…Things are looking bad for us. Really bad.”_

Zephyr’s heart stops as the blood drains from his face.

“How bad is it, Paz?”

Just a few meters away, Terys and Revala stop, their shoulders sinking as they exchange a look between themselves. _No_. He refuses to believe it. He refuses to believe it.

“We’re coming. Please just hold out, we’re on our way – “

“ _No,_ ” Paz says firmly. _“Zeph, listen to me – there’s no time. You need to get the kids out. Take the Desert Lark and run.”_

“No,” he whispers. “No, Paz – “

“ _Zephyr_ ,” your voice comes on, slightly muffled, “ _Please do this for us. The kids need you to look after them.”_

“But – “ Zeph sobs out. “What about you?”

_“It’ll be alright, Zeph,”_ Paz says soothingly. _“Whatever happens, Shu’shika and I are together. We will be together. We will be fine.”_

“What’s wrong? Why are you – “

He breaks off, unable to ask. _Why do you sound so resigned?_ Not again, please _not again_. He can’t lose his family a third time.

“ _I’ve been hit. I’ve lost a lot of blood, verd’ika,_ ” you say softly.

“No. _No_.”

“ _Zeph, I’m here with Paz. We’ll look after each other_ ,” you say. “ _I need you to go look after the kids, Zeph. Can you do that for us, please?”_

He is going to lose Paz and Shu’shika.

The realization feels like an armor-clad fist straight to the gut. But then, as he looks at the children, frightened and crying, something comes over him – a sense of calm and peace that chases away the fear and panic threatening to overwhelm him. He needs to be strong right now. He swallows the pain in his throat and steels himself. He can break down _later_. Right now, he has to protect the gremlins. They need him now more than ever.

“I…” His voice cracks. He hardens his resolve. “I’ve just grabbed some medical supplies. I need to go grab some ammo from the armory, but we are nearly finished getting everything on the ship.”

_“Good,_ ” Paz says gruffly. _“Zeph…I’m so proud of the warrior you’ve become.”_

_“Make sure you count them at least three times,”_ you say in your sweet voice.

“Of course.”

_“Zeph?”_

“Yeah, Paz?”

Armorer steps into the hangar and comes striding toward him.

_“I’m sorry. For not…not doing this sooner. But we’re going to make it right for you now.”_

“For not doing what?” Zephyr whispers. He hates that tone in Paz’s voice, that tone of acceptance and finality. “What are you going to make right?”

“ _Zephyr,_ _ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad_ ,” Paz says quietly.

For a moment, he doesn’t realize what Paz has said. Then it sinks in.

_I know your name as my child_.

He means it. He _really_ means it. Terys and Revala turn away as he chokes. They can only hear one side of the conversation, but he thinks they _know_.

“ _Zephyr,_ _ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad_ ,” you echo softly. “ _I love you_ , _ner_ _ad’ika_.”

He swallows the knot in his throat. That means the two of you have exchanged your vows.

_“March forward, Zeph, and don’t look back. Ret'urcye mhi, ad’ika,_ ” Paz rumbles out. “ _Keep your head level and your heart clear.”_

“ _Ret'urcye mhi, my sweet Zeph,_ ” you whisper, your voice tremulous.

“I love you,” he blurts out desperately. “Please, _please_ come back _– Ret'urcye mhi_ – “

There is a loud pop from his audials, making him flinch. Then a burst of static. Zephyr exhales. The connection is lost. Zephyr stands there, staring down at the datapad in his hands. He resolves himself – he will not fail, not while he needs to help look after the children. Terys and Revala linger nearby. He squares his shoulders. Then he inhales and exhales.

Keep his head level and his heart clear. Mourning will come later. Kids and Tribe first.

“What are you waiting for?” he says to the two warriors. “Let’s get the kids loaded up. We need to get going as quickly as possible.”

They nod at him and continue on their way silently. Armorer stops next to him, her work bag in her hands.

“Give me your right arm,” she orders.

He obeys in confusion. Before he can speak, Armorer is tacking the Vizsla clan insignia to his pauldron. He chokes a bit more, but nods, powering through the tears and fear. Zephyr Basann of the Vizsla Clan, he thinks to himself. What would Paz do? That unnatural calm fills him again. He sees people gathering in the hangar, all waiting for their orders. Armorer looks around the Tribe.

“Anyone under the age of twenty-two will be sent ahead with the children,” she says.

Zephyr nods in agreement. Protect the future generation, no matter the cost. Predictably, the hangar explodes into chaos. Just like the last time the families had been separated. He anticipates the chaos that ensues and starts lining the children up in front of the Desert Lark. The adults help him, forcibly dragging their own protesting teenagers forward. Zephyr ignores them, picking up young children and pressing them into the arms of their older vod.

“Those are your flight buddies,” he says to the group, letting his voice carry. “You keep them with you at all times.”

“But – “

“Shut it,” Zephyr says. “Do as you are told. Please.”

They shoot him venomous looks – he is younger than the oldest one in this group by nearly a year. Before they can remind him of it, or try to disobey his orders, Armorer raps her bracer against her cuirass sharply.

“Do. As. You. Are. Told,” she enunciates carefully. “I am aware that you are not helpless. But you know our ways, and you have been trained by our best warriors. Your duties are to look after these children until we can be reunited once more. You have been given an order. Protect your Tribe. Protect our youngest.”

No one dares to speak up.

“Zephyr, begin moving everyone onto the _Desert Lark_ ,” Armorer says, nodding once at him.

He returns the nod. He counts the children and young hunters once more. Thirty. Thirty people. Thirty of their vod who are going to be hidden away someplace safe.

“Thirty,” he says out loud.

Sixteen children too young to don the helmet, fourteen young hunters. Each person old enough to hold a child has one in their arms. The others are simply holding hands, or bags, or toys. He counts them a second time as he ushers them up the ramp. Once everyone is settled on the ground, children tucked between knees or between larger bodies, Zephyr exits. Terys comes back with their final crate – a crate of ammunition and various weapons. On it, he has stacked the sprouted sun cherry bushes.

He helps move the last crate into place and secure it. Then he lifts the cargo ramp and locks it. After counting again – _thirty –_ Zephyr returns to his place amongst the other hunters to wait for their Elders. Hannah leads the way, wearing unfamiliar armor in glossy black and blazing yellow. She slides the helmet onto her head. Zephyr realizes it is the first time he has seen her in full armor.

“Hannah,” Armorer says. “What are you – “

“I am not doing this a second time. I _will not_ do this again,” Hannah says, shaking her head.

“The children need you,” Armorer says respectfully.

“They have the others,” Hannah says. “They also have Jalyn. Do not ask me again, ad’ika.”

“I understand,” she says.

He moves forward to help the rest of the Elders up the steep ramp. Two of them are too frail to be standing upright; the last is half-blind in one eye. He helps them settle in the bunk, covering them with blankets.

“We are not doing this a second time, either,” Revala says, grasping Terys’s hand. “We _are not_ leaving them behind.”

“I’m with my riduur on that one,” Terys says.

Armorer nods as Dezha marches Jalyn toward the ship.

“I can help,” Jalyn protests, digging in his heels.

Dezha takes Jalyn’s right arm; Garan his left. They march him forward forcibly, even as he resists.

“I can help,” he repeats.

“Vod, you could not hit the broad side of a Star Destroyer even if we aimed for you,” Garan says gruffly, “You’ve got most of the braincells here – the children need you more.”

“But I can help – “

“What will you do, Jalyn?” Dezha asks quietly. “How will you help?”

Jalyn closes his eyes.

“I can carry ammunition,” he tries.

“No,” Dezha says. “You’re going ahead.”

“Vod, I swear if you don’t come back here,” Jalyn says. “No force will stop me from resurrecting you to _kill you_ myself. Do you understand?”

“Sure thing,” Dezha says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure they know to draw a map for you so you can find my body.”

“Fucker,” Jalyn sobs. “You absolute _fucker_.”

He stops resisting. _Thirty-five_ , Zephyr counts, as Jalyn unhappily makes his way up the ramp. Zephyr checks his weapons, determination filling him. He will cut down any Imp that stands between him and his buire _._ He will bring them home, no matter what it takes. As he re-holsters his weapon, he notes that it has grown deadly silent. He looks up. Armorer is staring at him.

The world falls out from under his feet.

“Zephyr, you will take the children,” she says. “You will hide. When it is safe, we will come and find you.”

Ice fills his stomach, roiling violently.

“Armorer, I can fight,” he says. “I am not helpless anymore.”

“I am aware that you can fight,” she says. “And you have never been helpless, Zephyr.”

“So why are you making me leave?” Zephyr asks. “I can help protect this Tribe.”

“They do not know we are here, Zephyr,” she says. “Otherwise, they would have attacked us directly.”

“Paz taught me everything he knows,” Zephyr tries an alternative route. “I can be an asset here.”

“You will be an asset when you pass that knowledge down to the children, Zephyr,” Armorer says.

Din steps forward, pressing his son forward. Automatically, Zephyr cradles the baby to his chest, staring down at his ba’vodu’ad. His eyes are dark and saddened, puffy at the edges. His cheeks are swollen and splotchy. He has been crying. And in that moment, he realizes what must be done. He understands why Paz didn’t just refuse to leave. If there is a chance that any of these children will lose their buire, they will need _him_ to step in.

“Please,” Din whispers. “Protect him. Don’t let the Imps get their hands on him.”

Zephyr nods.

“I will protect him,” Zephyr whispers. “Just bring them back, okay?”

“Your buire will be so proud of you,” Armorer says gently, squeezing his shoulder. “Look after them, Zeph.”

Zephyr squares his shoulders.

“I will protect them,” he says. “No matter what.”

They nod. Zephyr turns around and strides onto the ramp. Each step that he takes toward the ship feels like a knife in his gut is twisting tighter and tighter until he can’t breathe, but he breathes through it, forcing himself to continue. If he stops, he will break.

He will break and he will beg to stay. And he cannot do that. He cannot disappoint his Tribe, and he cannot disappoint his buire. Zephyr presses the button to close the entry ramp behind himself.

Then he counts his passengers one last time. Thirty-six, including Junior. In the cockpit, he scoots the chair forward and starts flipping levers and hitting buttons, balancing Junior on his knee. Tyki sends back the all-clear signal. Peering down out through the window, Zephyr can see the tribe hammering their bracers against their chest plates. He can almost hear the lyrics to the war chant, steady and strong like a heartbeat.

Silently, he maneuvers the Desert Lark through the hangar doors. He keeps low to the ground for a few minutes before lifting into the air. Up in the sky, Tyki flies alongside him, flashing him a salute through the window. Then she banks hard and dives back down toward the surface, returning to fight alongside her vod. Zephyr follows the flight plan to the letter.

Closing his eyes, he runs through the list of boltholes. He chooses one that is moderately far away. Then he chooses a series of random jumps and starts plotting his route. Once in the hyperspace jump, he begins plotting his course on paper. He flies for several hours, occasionally going down into the hold to check on his passengers. They’ve spread out – or, at least, as much as they can – to find rest.

Zephyr grabs the thick blanket off the bed in the captain’s quarters and folds it into quarters. The babies go in the center; the toddlers rest their heads on whatever space is left on the edges. Then he goes to distribute whatever blankets he can find to the Elders and children. Once everyone is somewhat comfortable, he checks the time.

“There are two free beds in the bunk and one in the captain’s room,” he says quietly. “If you want to figure out rotations, you can use the beds as needed.”

He passes by Jalyn, who has his cane resting on his knees.

“Need anything, vod?” Zephyr asks.

“Working eyes?” he asks, in a bitter tone. Then he exhales. “Sorry, Zeph. I just…it’s just. I call myself Mandalorian, and I can’t even help protect our Tribe.”

Zephyr stops next to him.

“Jalyn, you know what Armorer says about being smart, right?”

He frowns a bit.

“Something about knowledge being power, yeah?”

“Okay, so use those extra braincells of yours to teach the gremlins,” Zephyr says. “The more you teach them, the more they know, and the better they can protect themselves.”

Jalyn smiles wryly.

“You’re shit at the pep talk thing, you know that, right?”

“Remember, I only have half a braincell,” Zephyr returns with a laugh. “I haven’t found the other half yet.”

Jalyn shakes his head in response.

“Thanks, vod,” he says quietly. “For everything.”

It slips out before he can stop himself.

“It’s my job.”

“ _Spirits,_ ” Jalyn breathes, letting his head fall back. He chokes, eyes glossy with tears, “You already sound like him.”

Zephyr laughs.

He laughs because the only other alternative is to cry.

And he refuses to be weak when his Tribe needs him.

* * *

An explosion makes the pillars crack, sending up a spray of dust. It sounds like they’ve brought the EWEBs closer to mow through the barricades. You did not realize just how much weight the stairwell had been bearing on its own. They probably don’t realize it, either. Ah, well. You will detonate the grenades once they send troops down. You want to take as many of them with you as you can.

“I love you,” you whisper to him.

“I love you, Shu’shika,” he whispers in a honey-sweet baritone.

Lifting your datapad, you activate the camera. It flashes red in the corner. You aim it directly at yourselves, trying to avoid the big red splotch on your side. If only there had been more time.

“Zeph, if you’re seeing this, things have likely gone very wrong,” you say. “So, we wanted to use what time we have left to send you a message. Tell you the things we didn’t have the time to tell you earlier.”

“I’m going to miss you, kid,” Paz says. “I really am. No matter how much I bitched at you, I always missed you when I had to leave you back home. I’m glad that we were able to make our little clan of three official.”

“Thank you for taking care of the young ones. I know how much they annoy you,” you say with a laugh. “You’ve made us so, so proud, ad’ika.”

“We were truly blessed to have you as our son, both unofficially and officially,” Paz says. “We weren’t able to give you a horde of siblings, so we want you to adopt enough to make up for it, okay?”

“I want at least four bu’ade,” you say to the camera. “Make sure they set things on fire. Intentionally or unintentionally, it doesn’t matter to us.”

“Make sure they trip over everything in sight, too,” Paz says, pressing his forehead to yours. You almost sob in response. The two of you hold the embrace for a moment before drawing back.

“Remember, _four_ bu’ade,” you repeat. “Bu’ade that will make us known as the Shu’shuk Clan, alright?”

“Also, Zeph,” Paz says. “I know you’ve been sneaking my spare cannon out. You forgot to wipe your greasy fingerprints off it last time. It’s yours if you want it.”

You laugh.

“I told you to clean up after yourself,” you say, unable to keep your voice from breaking.

“I love you, Zeph,” Paz says. “Keep your head level and your heart clear.”

“I love you, sweetheart,” you chime in. “Don’t worry about us – we’ll be waiting for you.”

“We will _all_ be waiting for you, kid. Just don’t be in a rush to follow us.”

The next pillar cracks, sending up a spray of rubble. Paz throws his arm up to shield you from the worst of it. You turn the datapad off and tuck it into your cuirass, hoping that the armor will protect it from the worst of the weight about to come down on you. Paz wraps his arm around you, pulling you close as your vision starts to swim.

“I have always wanted to fall asleep in your arms,” you confess to him, lifting your hand to trace your thumb along his visor.

“I have always wanted to wake up in your arms,” he rumbles out, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Wherever we wake up, we’ll be together,” you whisper.

Another shower of debris rains down on the two of you. A fist-sized piece of granite narrowly misses Paz’s head. He ducks out of the way, curling himself protectively around your body. If only there had been more time.

“I love you, ner riduur,” you whisper.

“I love you too, ner riduur,” he responds.

You twine your fingers with his and close your eyes, resting your head against his chest plate. Instead of fear, you feel tired and fulfilled. You have honored the Resol’nare. You have helped raise a warrior. You have honored your riduur. You were strong where he was weak, and he was strong where you were weak. A sense of peace fills you as you lay there, listening as his breathing slows.

You promised yourself that you would spend the rest of your life at Paz’s side.

You just never thought that your marriage would be this short.

_22 minutes._

You had prayed for the privilege of a lifetime by his side, rearing warriors, and eventually helping them with their own verd’ika. It breaks your heart to know that you cannot give Paz the chance to hold his infant in his arms and press his forehead to theirs. To finally hear his child call him buir. To meet his bu’ade.

“I’m so tired,” Paz whispers hoarsely.

“Rest, cyar’ika,” you say.

If only there was more time, you lament. Just a few more minutes to say goodbye to your son. A few more minutes to say goodbye to your family and friends. A few more minutes to relish in your husband’s embrace. Just a few more minutes to finally see your husband’s face, to taste his lips.

The roof falls in bigger chunks now, bouncing off Paz’s pauldron and clattering onto the ground.

Just a little more time.

Just a few minutes.

The last pillar cracks. You hear footsteps pounding in the stairwell. Orders for platoons to split off and search for you. Paz’s hand tightens at your waist. From your side cam, you see the ceiling start to crumble. A piece of timber starts to work its way down slowly. Inhaling, Paz wraps his arms tightly around you, one hand rising to cover your camera. He presses his helmet against the front of yours one last time.

“ _I love you so much_.”

You hear the click of Paz pressing the detonator.

_If only there had been just a little more time._

* * *

[Bonus Scene]

Dezha stands in front of the warriors, helmet under his arm, listening as they discuss possible ways to go rescue their vod. Armorer stands next to him. Glancing at the shuttle, he finds himself struck by a brilliant idea. He raps his bracer sharply, catching their attention.

“Rising jai’galaar, falling phoenix,” he says to the crowd.

The crowd – at least those raised with Tribe Marell – responds with ‘ooh’ and ‘yes’. Those from Tribe Nevarro have no idea what he is talking about.

“Do you mean rising phoenix?” Armorer asks, tilting her helmet up at him, in a sign of confusion.

“No, rising jai’galaar, falling phoenix,” Dezha repeats. “It’s a game.”

“It’s a game that _you_ got banned!” Garan shouts from the back.

Armorer suddenly has a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“What did this game entail?” she asks.

“Rising jai’galaar,” Dezha says, pointing at the shuttle. “Fly under radar level at high velocity, then dive bomb the target.”

His grin spreads as he points at himself with his thumb.

“We are the falling phoenix,” he continues. “Pilot pops open the cargo ramp and we’d all jump out.”

“First person to ignite their jetpack had to do latrine duties for the week,” Garan shouts.

“Now _that’s_ a kriffing plan,” Neten says, his voice filled with awe.

“Alor, you are a _genius_ ,” Barem adds to the noise.

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Armorer says. “We do not have enough jetpacks for the entire Tribe.”

“We can lure the TIE-fighters away,” Tyki says. “Drop some bodies on the ground.”

“Then I can fly anyone who doesn’t have a jetpack in,” someone says. “Or, if you’d prefer to fly your ship, Din – “

“Hell no,” Din says. “I’m jumping, I’m not waiting to go get Paz and Shu’shika.”

“OYA!” comes the rousing call.

Armorer sighs. It’s the best plan they have. She watches as they start dispersing back to the armory to pick up their jetpacks. Dezha comes back a few minutes later. He offers her a jetpack in shocking blue.

“Wanna jump with me?” he asks. “I promise I’ll catch you if you fall.”

She looks down at the jetpack.

“Whose jetpack is this?” she asks slowly.

“Jalyn’s,” Dezha says nonchalantly. Then, realizing his mistake, his mouth snaps shut. He clears his throat as she inhales sharply.

“You took _Jalyn_?” she hisses at him.

“I was there the entire time,” Dezha says, shaking his head. “We were fine.”

“The first time you took him up, I had to go get you,” Doctor Shen says, breezing by with her own pack strapped to her back. “As I recall, Jalyn broke both ankles. You snapped your femur and broke your wrist.”

“See, we were fine,” Dezha says with a grin. “Just a few broken bones. Nothing a bit of bacta couldn’t fix. He also had a lot of fun.”

She turns the pack over and examines the carbon deposits in the thruster cone. Dezha looks away guiltily.

“When was the last time you took him up?” Armorer demands.

“A while ago,” Dezha says, backing up a step. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Dezha Herad Draldeega,” Armorer warns. “ _When?”_

“Three weeks ago,” Dezha says with a nonchalant shrug.

“Three _weeks_ – “ her voice starts to rise to a dull shriek.

“Don’t worry about it, ner cyar’ika,” he says with a flirtatious wink, jamming his bucket on his head.

He takes advantage of her stunned posture and makes a very hasty retreat. She thought she had seen the pinnacle of hunter stupidity before in her lifetime, but now, she finds herself utterly _speechless_. He had recklessly endangered a blind man’s life. Not only that, he had _dared_ to call her _his cyar’ika_. Pure rage fills her.

Gathering her wits, she follows, reaching for her hammer. Dezha slams his fist on the button to raise the ramp and wiggles his fingers at her in goodbye.

“See you there!” he calls out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando’a Translations:
> 
> beskar - Mandalorian steel  
> karta beskar - steel heart (hexagon in the cuirass)  
> manda - Mandalorian heaven/collective soul  
> buir/e - parent(s)  
> ba'vodu - aunt/uncle  
> ba'vodu'ad – cousin  
> verd('ika) - warrior, little warrior  
> keldabe kiss - forehead bonk  
> ner vod - my brother/sister/comrade  
> ad('ika) - child, little child  
> shu'shuk - screw up, disaster  
> shu'shika - little disaster  
> ori'shuk - big disaster  
> Numur -> Junior trying to say nu morut'yc -> not safe  
> cyare - beloved, loved, popular (beloved)  
> cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart


	10. When You Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Mentions of Paz x Reader, but this chapter is from Din’s POV.  
>  **Word Count:** ~8300  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Warnings:** Canon-typical violence, angst, descriptions of combat, combat-related injuries, cursing, death. Angst.  
>  **Author’s Notes:** Finally, Chapter 10. Sorry for the delay, things got busy and I fucked up and the plot didn’t work. This is the alternate story line that will be continued. The original ending can be found at the very end, skip if you want. Just wanted it to be available for y’all to see what could have been.

**❤️❤️❤️** [ **This beautiful moodboard** ](https://huliabitch.tumblr.com/post/625843601786781696/you-reblog-it-as-many-times-as-you-want-im-so) **is by the amazing** **huliabitch** **! Thank you so much!!!** **❤️❤️❤️**

“ _Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur_ ,” Dezha shouts over the rattling of the engines.

Din grasps one of the few handholds and braces himself against the wall as the entire shuttle begins to shake. He glances around the interior, noting that the members of his own tribe seem anxious. Those who have jumped before, however, do not seem very concerned by the rattling coming from the back end of the shuttle. In fact, they seem excited. The tension in the air is starting to ratchet to near-frenzied levels.

“Approaching combat zone,” Tyki says, her calm voice filling the cargo hold. “Beginning ascent now.”

Tyki then pulls back on the yoke, lifting the nose of the shuttle straight into the air. The rattling noise turns into a steady clanging noise and Din grimaces – the Razor Crest had never sounded quite this bad, even at its worst. He grabs the handhold with both hands as the force pressing him down into his boots increases. At the top of the arc, the ramp starts to lower.

Dezha lifts his fist into the air.

“OYA!” he bellows.

The rousing call is returned by the rest of the crew. Tyki pushes forward on the throttle, pointing the nose of the shuttle down at the ground. Din can see bolts of red blasterfire flying up as the Troopers finally notice their presence.

Garan pushes his way to the front of the line of bodies, grabbing Dezha by the pauldron and slamming his forehead against his. All around him, Din can see people exchanging affectionate _keldabe_ kisses. For some, it will be their last. The realization is sobering.

He grits his jaw.

He will simply need to end this fight before they lose anyone else. No matter what it takes, he will end this fight. Tyki pulls back on the throttle and the shuttle lurches forward, hurtling toward the ground.

“JUMP!” Tyki shouts back at them. “NOW!”

Dezha and Garan leap without hesitation. Then Din sprints forward and leaps. They aren’t far off the ground – maybe a few hundred feet – but the fall _exhilarates_ him, the pounding of his heartbeat barely audible over the roar of the wind in his ears. Din tucks his arms along his sides, using his bracers to shield his vulnerable spots on his sides.

Up ahead, he sees a burst of white-hot flames as the two men finally ignite their packs, slowing down just enough to hit their targets. Din takes another moment to locate and target his own quarry – a lone sniper on the roof of a modest townhouse. With a twist of his body, Din ignites his pack, killing enough forward momentum to avoid injuring himself.

The trooper notices him at the last moment and tries to dodge. Din hits them feet-first, impacting their chest plate so hard it cracks open. The sniper does not make a sound as they tumble over the edge of the building. They hit the ground with a meaty thud. He fires a single shot through the visor to ensure they are truly dead.

“One more sniper down,” Din confirms over the comm, circling back to the rooftop.

He raids the stash of ammunition and takes everything that might be of use to him. Then he begins moving forward, hopping from rooftop to rooftop as he searches for more targets.

“Take the snipers out before the rest of our ground forces move in,” Tyki says over the coms. “I’ll distract the fighters as best I can.”

Moments later, Tyki flies overhead and the shockwaves generated by the engines nearly knock him on his backside. He follows her north. The tiny shuttle is fitted with an equally tiny gun, but she is making maximum use of her limited firepower. Her shots are both precise and accurate, neatly disabling one of the grounded TIE-fighters. It goes up in a brilliant plume of smoke and fire.

“ _Ori’jate sur’haaise, jai’galaar’ika_!” someone calls out over the comms.

The public comm lines burst into a cacophony of voices nearly immediately as the ancient system struggles to modulate the number of calls suddenly connecting. Din can hear voices calling out to each other, trying to find out what is happening. Some are trying to send warning to others in nearby towns. He even hears someone trying to contact New Republic authorities.

Din scoffs – they are not coming here, not for a shoot-out between Mandalorians and Imperial remnants. He finally loses his patience and switches his microphone on. He’s not supposed to communicate with the _aruetii_ using his comm id, but this is getting out of hand. He cannot hear his orders, and that is not a risk he is willing to take right now.

“Pick someone to begin coordinating evacuation,” Din bellows. The channel falls silent. “Keep your public broadcasts _silent_ unless you are reporting Imperial activity.”

“Who the hell is this?” someone dares to ask him.

Din ducks behind a pillar to avoid a barrage of blaster fire.

“The Mandalorian trying to kill the fucker currently blowing your town up,” Din growls. “Now, _shut up_ and stay out of our way.”

He signs off. After that, the silence is only interrupted by someone reporting Imperial activity, which gives them a significant advantage. They may not be able to hack into Imp communication lines, but at least they have eyes on the ground. Din sends a broadcast out in Mando’a for his people to use secure channels for their own messages and keep an ear out for the chatter. It is clear that the Empire has no friends here in this town.

He takes a moment to survey his surroundings. From his position, he spots another sniper and shoots them off the roof. Earlier, Paz had called back twenty, remarking that they had killed at least six. Over the coms, he confirms his two sniper kills.

“ _– gotten eighteen porgs, Garan. How are you doing?”_

_“That AT-ST still only counts for ONE, Dezha – “_

Din sighs.

“Will you two idiots keep the coms clear?” he barks at them.

 _“We work our way north,”_ Armorer cuts in. _“That is where the majority of Gideon’s forces are.”_

“Heading back with ammo, Armorer,” Din says.

As he falls back toward the ground forces, the others chime in until they reach twenty confirmed dead snipers. Din staggers back to the line and hands part of his stolen ammunition to one of the squad leaders for redistribution. The other two shuttles come in, dropping off the rest of their ground forces.

“Revala, take your squad and take the western route toward the market.”

“Aye, Armorer,” Revala says, leading the way down the street. “Come on, we’ve got a wedding to plan.”

“I can’t let my gift go to waste,” Terys quips, slinging the ammo bag over his shoulder.

“I hope they like chartreuse,” Neten says as he follows at Revala’s heels.

“Din, go provide Dezha and Garan with backup. Three streets east, two north,” Armorer says to him.

“Aye,” he confirms.

Din heads toward Dezha and Garan, hopping from rooftop to rooftop, clearing each street from above. As he draws nearer, he hears a scream, and a stray shot goes whizzing past into the sky. Din peers over cautiously. A woman stands there, a blaster in her hand, and two crying children huddled behind her. She’s staring down at a motionless pile of white, her hands shaking.

“Keep moving,” Din shouts down at her.

She jerks up in surprise. He waves her on.

“That way,” he points down the alley toward where he had come from. “Route should be clear. Get to the forest and hide.”

She nods up at him in thanks before she and her children flee. He hopes they can get to safety. He doesn’t like involving bystanders in his business, especially innocent children. Grimly, he pushes forward. He just needs to make sure that Gideon cannot involve more innocents in their fight.

“Watch out for the _aruetiise_ ,” Din says. “Looks like they’re trying to fight back.”

“Copy that,” someone responds.

Another explosion rocks the ground and Din continues pushing forward. At long last, he finally catches up to Garan and Dezha. The two men are standing back to back in the middle of a major crossroads, surrounded on all four sides by troopers. _Of course_ , the two men are arguing. Din ignores them as he drops down behind the southern group, firing with both blasters. With his timely distraction, the two men go scrambling for cover. Din swings out from behind the damaged transport and picks off three more.

“Can you two stop flirting and start shooting?” he snaps at the two men.

“Bite my _shebs_ ,” Garan hisses. “You got us into this mess, _di’kut_!”

“That’s _Alor Di’kut_ to you,” Dezha fires back.

Din only sighs as they start quarreling once more. Despite their arguing, it takes only a few minutes to clear the twenty or so remaining enemies. When the crossroads is clear, they press north. Unfortunately, backup arrives in the form of four _heavily_ armored troop transport ships.

Tyki’s limited firepower cannot penetrate their shields, so she circles back around to focus on the last AT-ST. It goes up in a brilliant fireball seconds later. Dezha gives them two minutes to get some water and to reload as the transporters offload their living cargo.

After scanning the lines, Din estimates they have got another two hundred buckets to deal with.

“At least two hundred more,” he calls back to the ground forces. “Coming in hot.”

Armorer’s response is immediate.

“All fall back to our position,” Armorer says. “We’ve lost contact with Revala’s squad.”

With their orders, they retreat, waiting for the rest of the ground forces to regroup. Occasionally, they pick off the enemy as they get close, but they appear to be waiting. Din takes the opportunity to convene with one of the mechanics. They give his blasters a second check, checking the scope and testing the batteries. After they tighten a screw, Din takes back his blasters and heads to Armorer’s side.

She is surrounded by squad leaders. Din loiters at the edge of the crowd.

“Scouts report that town hall has been badly damaged,” Armorer says. “The majority of his men appear to be digging the basement out.”

“They might still be alive,” Din says, pushing his way through the bodies. “Do they – “

“There is no evidence indicating they are still alive,” Armorer responds coolly. “They may be attempting to access their helmets.”

Din grits his jaw, unable to hold back his temper.

“Don’t you _bantha_ -shit me,” Din says. “They are alive. I know it.”

She looks up at him and everyone goes silent. He knows he has crossed the line then.

“What evidence do you have?” she asks. “Were you privy to a message that we were not?”

He grimaces.

“Well, no, but – “

“The likelihood of them surviving is astronomically low,” Armorer says firmly. “You must accept this reality, _verd_.”

He closes his eyes. From an early age, Din has known the risks of being a hunter. They walk a path as narrow as the edge of a blade. A single mistake in their profession could be disastrous. Fortune can become fatal in the blink of an eye. Din breathes in and out for several moments, trying to calm the roiling in his belly.

He is so used to watching Paz swagger down the hallway after a successful hunt that the reality of the situation has not yet sunk in for him. Din genuinely cannot imagine a world without his brother boasting about his offering to the Tribe. Or hearing his brother whistling the same annoying tune in the Armory until someone screams at him to shut up.

Din opens his eyes.

Paz has always been his stability: from the moment their _buir_ brought him home to the time Din first donned his helmet, all the way to when Paz had hesitantly asked him for advice on courtship. The possibility of him _not being there_ is a reality Din is not prepared to face. He has lost so many loved ones in his life. He has mourned them, honored them, and moved on. But this is one loss Din thinks he could never recover from.

For a moment, he feels like that same terrified seven-year-old boy, arms wrapped around Mar as they fly away to safety. How many times had he thrown himself at Paz for comfort while fleeing? How many times had Paz told him they would be okay so long as they were together? How many times had Paz apologized for not bringing back enough food? How many times had Paz sung to him until the tears stopped falling and he could finally find rest?

If a twelve-year-old boy could find that kind of strength then, Din knows he can be strong now.

“ _Ni dirycir ner kovid_ ,” he says quietly.

She nods once at him and returns to coordinating their next move. Din focuses his thoughts on the fight at hand. He will get through this: one step – one _shot_ – at a time until they can find the bodies.

“We continue north,” Armorer says. “We break through their lines here. Squads three, four, and five stay behind to cover our advance.”

They may not have numbers, but they have skill and experience the Imps do not have. They will have to overwhelm them with brute force. The leaders break away to their squads. Din turns to make his way back to Dezha, but Armorer stops him with one hand on his bracer.

“Din,” Armorer says quietly. “We will do whatever it takes to find them. Their bodies will be laid to rest with dignity and respect.”

“Armorer,” he chokes out around the knot in his throat.

“If there is anyone among us who is stubborn enough to survive this, it would be Paz,” Armorer continues in that same soft voice. “You know he would not let anything happen to _Shu’shika_. Have hope, but do not delude yourself. It would be disastrous for your morale.”

“I understand,” he says.

She squeezes his arm as she goes back to resupply. Once everyone has their orders, they move north, pushing back against the enemy lines. Meter by meter, minute by minute, they advance. Sometimes they lose ground. Through sheer stubborn will, they _finally_ break through the sea of white armor and blaster fire. The squads break off to strategic positions, covering their advance toward city hall.

When it finally comes into view, his heart sinks.

The scouts had reported damage to the building. His hopes of seeing his brother alive once more evaporate in an instant. This is more than just damage. The entire western half of the building has collapsed into the basement. The eastern half is still somehow standing, though it looks like it might come down at any moment.

Troopers crawl around and over the rubble like insects, clearing the debris away by hand. His stomach drops into his toes. Not even Paz’s thick skull could survive something like this. The only thing that keeps him from crying out in anguish is the sound of Moff Gideon’s voice filling the square.

“Mr. Djarin, what a surprise. I am happy to see you alive and well.”

Din scans his surroundings. It takes him a few seconds to find Gideon tucked away behind several lines of his men. Their two remaining EWEBS are aimed in their direction, ready to mow down anyone who dares approach. Gideon is protected on two sides by troop-infested buildings. The other two sides are protected by troops on foot, all fresh and waiting for orders.

They cannot reach him. They’ll need to flush him out.

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same for you,” Din retorts around his sneer.

Armorer slides into place next to him, signing for him to continue speaking. It will give them time to come up with a plan of action. The scouts need time to report back their findings. Moff Gideon chortles.

“Your answer does not surprise me in the least. Let us not waste time. Which of your comrades has the child?” he asks. “Or is the child back at the nest with the rest of your whelps?”

 _Whelps_? Pure fury fills him. Din is grounded only by Armorer’s hand on his forearm, her grip so tight and painful it feels like she’s wrung out every drop of blood out of his limb. He grits his jaw and forces himself to respond.

“The child is with its people,” Din retorts. It _is_ the truth. “Where it belongs.”

Armorer signs to him.

_Tyki will be strafing the lines in a moment. Incoming TIE-fighters confirmed. Need to take him out fast._

He breathes his way through the next few beats of silence, trying to lower his blood pressure as Moff Gideon begins to laugh.

“A Mandalorian found his way to the _Jedi_ ,” Gideon says, his voice full of mirth. “Very well, Mr. Djarin. When this fight reaches its conclusion, you will need to tell me exactly where you found them.”

“No, thank you,” Din responds. “I’ll have to decline.”

Above them, Tyki goes hurtling by, no fewer than four TIE-fighters on her tail. The shockwaves stop all conversation. Din realizes she is probably running on fumes by now. She needs to land soon, or –

The shuttle explodes into smithereens above their heads. He ducks as the flaming remains come raining down onto their heads.

“It is a shame to lose such a skilled pilot,” Gideon says. “You don’t see that kind of marksmanship and skill anymore.”

 _Fuck_.

Tyki was their _only_ aerial support. The other shuttle had been drained to fill her tanks to give her as much time in the sky as possible. Without her, they are truly fucked. Before he can think of a response, he sees a speck plummeting down through the smoke, barely visible against the roiling grey clouds.

“Hold your fire,” Gideon says. “I wish to see how this will conclude.”

Tyki ignites her pack to break her fall, but it begins to splutter. Then it goes out completely and she plummets toward the ground. Before he can move, a quick thinking hunter leaps into the air, arms outstretched to catch her. Din holds his breath reflexively as the distance between their bodies closes rapidly. Their bodies collide with a painful sounding thud. As the hunter tries to slow their descent, his own jetpack whines from the strain, the flames spluttering white.

At the last moment, just a few meters above the ground, his pack fails. They hit the ground hard.

For a heart-stopping moment, Din fears the worst. Then Tyki rolls off the hunter and waves ‘all clear’ at them. It takes several seconds for the two of them to get up and hobble toward Doctor Shen. Din closes his eyes in relief. They cannot afford to lose anyone else.

 _He_ cannot lose more of his family.

“What good fortune for your comrade,” Gideon says. He clears his throat. “Back to business. I see that my presence has clearly agitated the nest. Once I am finished dealing with you, Mr. Djarin, I will have my men scour this entire planet. I will find them.”

Din does not respond.

“I do hope I brought along enough collars for all the little pups you have hidden away,” Gideon says nonchalantly.

The growl that leaves him is nothing short of feral. Threatening a Mandalorian’s child is a mistake few live long enough to regret. Din has no plans of letting Gideon survive long enough to collar another child. He doesn’t realize he is moving until Armorer stops him in his tracks.

“I wonder how many we can fit on you,” Din retorts.

Gideon only laughs.

“Perhaps I will have one made for you, Mr. Djarin,” Gideon responds. “I grow weary of your impudence. Resume fire.”

Everyone immediately hunkers down behind their cover. Armorer gives out the order to not shoot unless they are certain they can hit the enemy. In the few minutes of conversation, another four transport vessels have landed and offloaded another two hundred helmets. They make no progress in the next hour of combat. For each trooper they kill, another three take their place until he cannot even see Gideon anymore.

Armorer and Dezha switch places.

“How are you holding up?” Dezha asks.

“Not injured, only minor exhaustion,” Din says between careful shots. “Want to kill that fucker more than ever now.”

“This is not going nearly as well as I had hoped,” Dezha says. “Cover is falling back to our position.”

“How long?” Din asks.

“If we don’t get lucky, we will be surrounded,” Dezha says with a shrug. He checks his weapons. “They are holding up well, though.”

“I was _really_ hoping to have Hannah’s stew tonight,” Din grumbles in response.

Din ducks as a grenade explodes a few yards in front of their cover. He shakes the ringing from his ears and returns the favor. His aim is _much_ better than theirs, and he manages to take a few out. Din massages his aching forearms and sinks down for a breather while Dezha covers him. Fumbling for his pouch, Din digs out his drinking tube and sticks it into his canteen. The water is warm and chlorinated, but it will do for now.

The comms crackle and fizz. Din and Dezha exchange a look. They preemptively wipe the data from their helmets in case Gideon is trying to hack them. Another pop. Then he hears a voice.

“ _This is First Lieutenant Bi’ran acting on behalf of the New Republic Alliance. Moff Gideon, you are hereby ordered to lay down your arms and cease all hostilities. If you do not comply, we will consider it an act of war, and we will retaliate appropriately.”_

Din growls.

“That fucker is mine,” Din snarls to nobody.

He peers over their cover. Gideon actually looks worried. The rumble of engines signals the arrival of ships. Din watches in amazement as eight X-wings drop through the clouds. A single, slower-moving troop ship follows. The X-wings come in low and fast, taking aim directly at them.

“TIE-fighters coming in hot from the south,” Dezha warns over the comms. “There is a base of operations there.”

“ _Identify yourself_ ,” Captain Bi’ran orders back.

“How about you shoot the Imp fuckers _first_?” Dezha snaps back. “Then we can talk!”

Fortunately, they listen, and focus on protecting their troop ship. Soon, the skies are clear, and the X-wings move on to Moff Gideon’s base of operations. The troop ship unloads its cargo – about thirty New Republic soldiers and their supplies.

 _“Identify yourselves,”_ Lieutenant Bi’ran demands.

“We are Tribe Marell,” Armorer responds over her shoulder. “As you can likely see, we are Mandalorians.”

“Stand down immediately,” Captain Bi’ran says. “We will continue this fight ourselves.”

Din is certain his people do not mean to insult Lieutenant Bi’ran, but the wave of laughter that fills the comms is nearly deafening. Nearly in unison, everyone resumes shooting.

“We are not leaving until Gideon has been neutralized,” Armorer responds coolly, as a literal _boy_ comes striding toward them. Din struggles to not dismiss him immediately.

“Ma’am, I am certain you have handled things well thus far,” Lieutenant Bi’ran says.

Armorer just looks at him.

“As I said, we are not leaving until Gideon has been neutralized,” Armorer says crisply. “Now, if you wish to assist, you may. Otherwise, you may face all three hundred troopers behind us on your own.”

Din watches as some of the color leaves Lieutenant Bi’ran’s cheeks.

“Gideon must be brought back to face charges for his war crimes – “

“I’ll let you take one of his body parts back to your people,” Din responds curtly.

Before Lieutenant Bi’ran can splutter out his response, Armorer speaks up.

“We require reinforcements on the back line,” she says.

Lieutenant Bi’ran ducks as a piece of debris goes sailing by his head. He divides his troops up into groups of five and sends them off to provide reinforcements. Armorer turns to the lieutenant.

“You follow me,” she says. “I will assist you in coordinating movement. When your pilots have finished destroying his base of operations, have them return and bring down these two buildings. Take all care to avoid the town hall.”

Din shoots another trooper, tuning out the sound of Armorer providing her honest – sometimes brutal – lessons in leadership. Lieutenant Bi’ran cannot be a day over eighteen, Din thinks to himself, looking at the round-cheeked kid. The Republic must be recruiting them straight out of primary school. This must be Lieutenant Bi’ran’s first _official_ posting.

Then he hears the sound of a TIE-fighter powering on. _Shit_ , they had hidden the last one out of sight.

“Shoot that fighter down!” Din bellows. “Do not let him escape!”

A bright red X-wing zips by overhead. With a precise burst of fire, the TIE fighter explodes. Gideon’s escape is cut short. A rousing cheer goes up from behind him. Gideon is trapped. The only things separating Din from his prey are a few hundred Troopers. Din briefly debates whether he can cut his way through the sea of enemies.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dezha warns.

“Think about what?” Din asks.

“ _Vod,_ ” Dezha says in exasperation. “You can kill him. Just let us clear the path first.”

When the first trooper turns on their comrades, they think it strange. Then more and more begin turning on their comrades. Others throw down their weapons and flee. Soon, the other half of the battlefield is engulfed in pure chaos as the troopers start fighting among themselves. One steals the EWEB and begins mowing down the ones protecting Gideon.

Before long, there are three distinct groups on the field. Gideon’s group dwindles rapidly to only a few dozen. Din wrenches his way out from Dezha’s hand and leaps over the pile of rubble, dashing toward his prey.

“DJARIN!” he hears Dezha bellow.

He recklessly launches himself into the writhing mass of bodies, shooting anyone who comes between them. His attack seems to set something off in the troopers. They part around him, allowing him to come face-to-face with Gideon. Din begins circling around Gideon, keen eyes seeking out potential weaknesses for exploit. His opponent starts talking.

Din feels a strange feeling of cool calm wash over him, silence drowning out the sounds of combat around him. Step by step, he and Gideon circle one another. He can hear the shifting of the dirt underfoot. He can smell the rain on the wind. Every sense tingles as he enters that state of hyperfixation on his prey. When Gideon ignites the Darksaber, a feral grin spreads across Din’s lips. His ancestors had once waged war against the Jedi. Now, he will end this _demagolka’s_ reign of terror, no matter what it takes.

Gideon makes the first move, lunging for him with a burst of surprising speed. Din dodges with ease, noting the layer of sweat that covers his skin and the bulging vein on his forehead as he slashes down with the Darksaber. The other man spins away, his left foot slipping on the gravel. Din ignores the man’s attempt to lure him in closer, instead focusing on learning his combat style. He has learned how to wield his weapon from someone, Din notes, as his hands work confidently, almost automatically.

Din dodges the next thrust, lashing out with his vibroblade. It slices through empty air – too far from flesh and too close to the plasma blade. Din retreats as Gideon thrusts up with the blade once more. Din feels the odd crackling heat from the blade as it narrowly misses his arm. Like angry snakes, they strike, trying to find a place to sink in their fangs and deliver the final fatal blow. Gideon staggers, chest heaving. Din maintains his distance.

Any young hunter would have taken the bait, but Din knows when his prey is trying to trick him. He continues circling, forcing Gideon to continue moving, to continue expending his energy. Gideon lunges and Din feels that cool feeling wash over him once more. Everything seems to slow down. He slashes up with his _beskar_ vibroblade, deflecting the plasma blade, bringing his other fist up hard. This time, he gets Gideon in the gut, making him grunt in pain. Din continues moving forward, slashing at his wrist with the vibroblade.

The narrow blade sinks deep into Gideon’s forearm. Scarlet gushes out over his hand. Din twists and forces the blade out of Gideon’s grasp. It clatters to the ground and extinguishes itself. Gideon brings up his other fist, revealing a blade Din had not seen before. Din twists but cannot avoid the attack. The knife slashes across his belly. His vest and leather abdominal covering take the worst of the damage, yet it still carves a deep line into his side.

He pushes through the pain and lunges again. Gideon twists out of the way and tries to run, but he does not make it far. The troopers descend on him like a pack of rabid _strille_. One slams the butt of their rifle between his shoulders, sending him flying onto his face. They haul him to his feet and restrain him. Din picks up the Darksaber, turning it over in his hands.

The hilt is surprisingly heavy for its size.

“What will be done with him?” one of the troopers asks, taking her helmet off.

She tosses it down to the ground and kicks it away, wiping up some of the blood running down her temple.

“March him into the square,” Din says.

He can see Armorer restraining Lieutenant Bi’ran. As the troopers forcibly march Gideon into the square, Din follows, feeling the heavy weight of the Darksaber in his hand. The troopers force him to kneel in the center, weapons aimed at his back. Gideon stares up at him defiantly.

Din stares down at him. He has longed for this moment for so many years, to avenge the deaths of those he loved and those he never had a chance to know. How many lives has Gideon ended, both directly and indirectly? How many of his _vode_ had been so traumatized by his torture that they had chosen to take their own lives? To turn away from what made them Mandalorian? How many families had been torn apart by this monster?

“What will you do now, Mr. Djarin?” Gideon sneers up at him. “If you think the New Republic can keep me contained, you are wrong. I will hunt your people until I have exterminated every last one of you like the filthy rats you are.”

Din ignites the Darksaber.

Without hesitating, he brings it down and across, severing Gideon’s head from his body. The newly freed troopers let out cries of joy as Gideon’s corpse tumbles down onto the ground. Din picks up the head and strides toward Lieutenant Bi’ran. The young man’s face has gone ashen.

“This execution will not bring back the people he has murdered,” Lieutenant Bi’ran says. “This solves nothing at all. We would have made him stand trial for the crimes he has committed against sentient life.”

Din drops the head into his empty ammo bag. He thrusts it into Lieutenant Bi’ran’s arms. His lips and fingers tingle with the sudden drain in adrenaline and he swallows. Squaring his shoulders, he stands tall and proud. Gideon is dead. It is a devastating blow to the rest of the Empire remnants floating around in the galaxy.

“Gideon started this fight and we have ended it. Do not make enemies of us,” Din says flatly.

Their tribe is small. He does not know if any others even still survive. For all he knows, they are alone in this galaxy. However, he hopes that the news travels back to the rest of the Empire remnants. One of their most prominent officers – as well as several hundred troops – have been eliminated by a group of fifty Mandalorians. He hopes it is a deterrent to anyone looking to continue Gideon’s work.

“I-I will talk to my superior,” Lieutenant Bi’ran stutters out.

“The _de’kath_ will pick the bones clean by dawn,” Din says, staring back at the corpse. “Dump it near the canyons, make sure to bury the bones where no one will find them.”

“Sir, I really must insist – “

“Don’t even try me,” Din says to Lieutenant Bi’ran. “You’re testing my patience right now.”

Din turns around and begins striding back to the building. Pausing, he wraps his tattered cape around his midsection to staunch the minor injury. Silently, he takes one end of the timber. A trooper approaches, setting their weapon down on a rock. They pick up the other end.

Together, they lift it out of the way. Din watches as his own people come swarming forward, followed by the New Republic soldiers. Then the townspeople come out of their homes. They work in silence, breaking it only to direct the movement of something large.

He wants to rest. Every part of him aches to the bone, as if he had been trampled by a herd of mudhorns. Din feels tears blur his eyes as he works, muscles burning and crying out for respite. He will not stop until he has retrieved their armor for Zephyr. He will not rest until their bodies have been cremated and their souls released to the Manda.

As they work, a cool breeze picks up from the plains, sweeping east toward the dark clouds. Vaguely, he sees more New Republic ships dropping through the clouds. He recognizes the symbols painted on the sides. They are relief aid ships, likely bringing food and water for the townspeople. Din cannot help the sneer crossing his face.

The governing body of Marell is not part of the New Republic. This is likely a ploy to get them to join up. There is a hyperspace lane nearby which could be useful to the right people. Not only that, the freed troopers will need assistance. If they choose to go with the New Republic, they will likely be ‘interviewed’ about Gideon for information. Din hears Lieutenant Bi’ran coordinating the offloading of droids. Most disappear to pass out supplies, but two come to scan the rubble.

“What are they doing?” he asks sharply.

“They’re calculating the best way to shift the rubble without causing any internal voids to collapse,” a bright-eyed young man says. “In case there are survivors, sir.”

Din grits his jaw and nods curtly. It takes a few minutes for the droids to mark the timbers to be moved and stabilize the ones that need to stay in place. Everyone moves in to begin moving. By the time the sun is beginning to set, they have cleared their way down to the ground, and only small piles of rubble remain. Din looks and scans, but cannot find anything, save for a faint smear of blood near the stairwell.

For several moments, Din is _terrified_ that they had been found and desecrated by the Empire. He turns to the nearest freed trooper, who is leaning heavily against the wall.

“Were their bodies found before this?” he asks.

“No, sir,” they say immediately. “We started digging just after the building came down.”

He turns to the final mass of rubble in the corner. He crouches a few yards away to get a better look. He notes some desks underneath it. They appear to be sturdily made. The droids begin to scan. Din feels on edge and twitchy as they work. Despite his acceptance of IG-11, he still can’t trust droids as much as he would a person. At long last, one steps forward and projects a hologram into the air. Once the rubble is stabilized, Din and the trooper begin working.

They lift the last beam out of the way and his breath leaves him. He takes one hesitant step forward. He manages a second before his knees wobble dangerously.

“ _– over here_ ,” he hears the trooper call out.

He falls to his knees after the droids move a desk out of his way. He reaches out to touch Paz’s shoulder. If it wasn’t for the layer of dust and rubble across his entire body, Din would have thought him asleep. His eyes well up and tears begin to stream down his face. As he glances down at his brother, he cannot stop himself from cataloguing the damage to Paz’s armor. No amount of _beskar_ , no matter how expertly crafted, could protect a body from that kind of crushing weight. His hand slips and he realizes he’s kneeling in a puddle of sticky blood.

He cannot suppress the sob that wells up in his throat.

“ _Ner ori’vod_ ,” Din chokes out. _“Ni ceta…ni ceta…_ ”

Din collapses, pressing his helmet against Paz’s pauldron. For so many years, Din had joked that _he_ would be the first to go marching. Paz had always told him that he had gotten the braincells. Din always argued back that he got the good looks. Now, he would never hear his brother’s voice again. He would never be able to jump onto him for another impromptu ‘Paz Pile’. And you…

A feral, broken noise escapes him. Paz had shielded your body with his, one hand covering your helmet, as if to protect you from the rubble. His other arm pillows your head so lovingly, as if the two of you are simply napping by the river on a hot, lazy day. He chokes on his next cry, saliva and snot spraying against the inside of his helmet. Hot tears continue burning down his cheeks, saturating his sweat-soaked beard. A hand comes down on his shoulder.

“Din,” comes Doctor Shen’s soft voice. “We need to move them.”

Before he can respond, a pebble shifts off Paz’s leg and bounces onto the ground. Din freezes and stares at it. Then he turns and rips the scanner out of Doctor Shen’s hands. The hope that fills him makes him dizzy, and the rational part of his mind tries to stop it. He scans his brother. For three agonizing seconds, he waits, each moment feeling like an eternity.

And then...

_It beeps._

He hears Doctor Shen’s inhalation from here. She takes the scanner from him and fiddles with the knobs. She scans again. Another beep.

“They’re still alive?” Din asks in a tiny, tremulous voice, turning to look up at her.

Her hand is shaking minutely.

“MOVE!” she bellows at him, shoving him back.

In numb disbelief, Din scrambles out of the way, slipping a bit in the blood as he circles up above Paz’s head. For several long seconds, he just sits there, watching as Doctor Shen works. He wants so, so badly to believe that the two of you have somehow survived, yet the broken, cynical part of him keeps reminding him that it could all just be an illusion. A trick from his grieving mind.

Doctor Shen attaches electrodes to Paz’s pulse points. One of the town doctors drops off the ladder and comes sprinting, crouching next to your frame and repeating the gesture.

Then it finally hits him, a wave of elation so pure and sweet it feels like he could soar straight into the stratosphere.

“They’re alive,” Din repeats softly to himself. Then he starts to laugh, “ _They’re alive_.”

“I am detecting abnormal cardiac rhythms,” Doctor Shen says. “Applying electrical stimulation now.”

Paz’s entire torso jerks violently and he groans. He _groans_ and Din thinks it is the most beautiful sound in the universe. Paz is _alive._ You are _alive_. The sense of relief is so overwhelming, so vastly _terrifying_ that it takes he begins hyperventilating between his choked cries. Doctor Shen begins jabbing Paz with her various hypos as he tries to calm himself down.

“Bacta!” she calls out. “NOW!”

As she reaches over him to roll your cowl down, Paz begins to struggle, his arm flopping uselessly. Din just starts sobbing again. So typical of Paz to punch first and ask questions later. Even now, he is trying to protect you, and it tears a hole straight through Din’s heart. Doctor Shen stabs him with another hypo.

“Sedative,” she grunts, dodging his elbow.

Paz keeps fighting, trying to move his head. Din leans in, pressing his forehead to Paz’s audial.

“Paz, it’s okay. I’m here,” he whispers. “I have you, _ner vod_. You are safe now.”

Paz stops struggling. Din just barely hears his soft sigh as his body goes limp.

“We have an emergency shuttle incoming,” Lieutenant Bi’ran calls down to them. “We have a bacta tank ready to go.”

_His family is still alive._

Din dissolves into another round of tears. For the first time in his life, he finds himself praying to deities his people no longer believe in. Din stays steadfastly by his brother as Doctor Shen and the town doctor work to stabilize the two of you for transport.

“They’ve both lost a lot of blood,” Doctor Shen says. “Blood pressure is still falling.”

The local doctor sprays clotting foam under the flag wrapped around your waist to staunch the wound. Doctor Shen injects you with something else, calling out a string of medical jargon that he cannot even begin to understand. The only words he can really comprehend right now are _critical condition._ The New Republic medic repeats the string over their communicator. Minutes later, he hears the rumble of a ship overhead.

The medical droids finally arrive. He watches as they stabilize the broken bones with some sort of spray-on cast. Then the droids carefully lift Paz and you on separate beds. Silently, they begin to lift the beds out of the pit. Din scrambles up the ladder to follow, his heart in his throat as the terror of losing his brother fills him once more. As he jogs to catch up, he finds Armorer. He looks to her, then to the beds.

“Armorer,” he says to her.

She waves him on.

“Go. I will look after our people in your stead,” she says. “Find us when you are ready.”

Din nods and jogs after the droids. He catches up at the foot of the ramp, where two medics are waiting.

“Sir – “ one attempts to say.

“He is my brother. She is his wife,” Din says flatly. “They are not going anywhere without me.”

The two medics exchange a look. For just a second, Din thinks they will try to stop him. They do not. The medic steps out of the way as they give him a curt nod. Doctor Shen follows him onto the shuttle. He shifts into the space at the foot of the gurneys to stay out of the way, hovering awkwardly over Paz’s head.

“My name is Doctor Vurr,” the head physician says. Glancing down at Paz, she asks, “I have previously worked with Mandalorian patients. Is removing the helmet an issue for your tribe?”

“It stays on,” Din grits out before Doctor Shen can respond.

“Is there a way for us to work around that limitation?” the woman responds calmly. “They may have sustained neck injuries.”

Swallowing, he turns to the droid, biting down his unease as he looks into the soulless red lights on its upper half. _The droids are not the enemy_ , he reminds himself, _only their programmers_.

“Do you consider yourself a living person?” he asks.

The droid beeps before responding. Doctor Vurr tilts her head curiously, a furrow appearing between her brows.

“This unit is an emergency surgical droid. It does not possess the capability to answer that query,” the droid returns.

Din turns back to the woman.

“Droids only. All databanks are to be wiped immediately afterwards,” he finally says. “No living thing is to see their faces.”

“Of course,” she responds. Then to Doctor Shen, she asks, “Are you their doctor?”

“Yes,” Doctor Shen says. “I received my license to practice on Alderaan.”

Doctor Vurr nods and begins placing electrodes on their wrists. The droid aims a spidery limb up the front of their helmets and scans. Din struggles to not flinch. He has seen what those thin, needle-sharp appendages can do to the human body. After a moment, it beeps again.

“No major fractures detected. Removal of helmets recommended for further diagnostic scans,” it says.

“It will have to wait until we are aboard the Challenger,” Doctor Vurr says. “The male patient will be transferred to the bacta tank upon arrival until he is stable. Female patient will be transferred to surgery immediately for wound treatment and transfusion of synthetic blood.”

“The hoods used to stabilize neck fractures in bacta tanks can be made opaque,” Doctor Shen says quietly to him. “I can stay with him. You need to consent for her helmet to be taken off.”

Din inhales sharply and shakes his head.

“That’s not my choice to make,” Din says. “She’s unconscious, it would be a violation to – “

“She needs a family member to consent for her,” Doctor Shen argues back.

“You’ve been her physician for years,” Din says. “You’ve seen her face, right? So – “

“Her husband cannot consent for her,” Doctor Shen says, gesturing at Paz. “You are her family through marriage, and I am not. I cannot consent for her, no matter how many times she has taken her helmet off for me.”

Din exhales gustily, his stomach roiling with anxiety. He glances down at your helmet and closes his eyes. As Doctor Shen said, he is family, and he can provide consent only for medical treatment. Yet the thought of taking that choice from you makes him physically sick.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Can they cover her up? So…so I don’t accidentally – ?”

“We will arrange for them to have maximum privacy,” Doctor Vurr says. He feels the rumble of the landing gears engage. “We have arrived. We will be taking him straight to the bacta tank. You, sir, have been authorized to stay with her.”

The shuttle ramp opens, revealing the interior of a very large ship. Din trots after your bed and droid, the ache in his stomach sharpening with each step he puts between himself and his brother. There is nothing he can do for Paz right now; he can only be there for you. The droids push your bed into a small surgical bay. A droid steps in front of the gurney. Then it lifts a sheet in front of you, blocking your face from view.

“We will require your consent to continue,” the same droid from the shuttle says.

Din almost leaps into the air when he realizes how close it has gotten to him without him noticing.

“Remove her helmet,” Din says, turning away from the window. “Treat her. Do not let _anyone_ see her face.”

He sinks down onto the ground to wait. Closing his eyes, he presses his bucket into his palms, breathing his way through the gut-churning anxiety. Everything has happened so quickly. He hasn’t had time to process any of it. From the hours spent in combat, to the fight with Gideon and his subsequent execution, to finding your bodies under the rubble. It all starts coming in vivid waves until his throat tightens up again and he can’t seem to breathe.

One thing at a time, he thinks to himself. The stress of combat is nothing new to him, but this fight had been different. It felt like he had been fighting not just for his own life, but for those of his entire people as well. He knows Gideon would not have stopped until he hunted every last Mandalorian down.

Din focuses on the breathing exercises Paz had taught him all those years ago. Inhale, hold, exhale, all to measured intervals. He hears footsteps and his head jerks up. Doctor Shen approaches.

“Hey,” she says quietly.

“How is he?” he asks, getting to his feet.

“He is alive and stable,” Doctor Shen says.

Din swallows.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he whispers.

“He took the majority of the damage,” she says. “If he makes it through the next few days, he will require multiple surgeries.”

“What’s the damage?” Din dares to ask.

“He was impaled by a piece of timber,” Doctor Shen says. “Collapsed his left lung and grazed his heart. His right lung is badly damaged. The majority of his left lung is necrotic and needs to be removed soon.”

Din swallows tightly.

“Blood clots traveled to his liver, kidneys, and intestines,” she says tiredly. “I don’t know the extent of the damage there yet. His pelvis was broken. Some of the nerves might have been damaged. His legs were crushed under the rubble. The left one had to be amputated just above the knee. We’re not sure about the right one. We might be able to save it, but…”

He leans his head against the glass, watching as the droids drift back and forth in the surgical bay.

“Really outdid himself this time, didn’t he?” Din chokes out.

Doctor Shen lets out a mirthless laugh.

“ _Mand’alor_ ,” Doctor Shen says politely, firmly, breaking him from his stupor.

Din’s head shoots up and he turns around.

“Where?” he blurts out.

He sees only a woman with dark eyes and hair. She wears a white dress and her neatly styled hair is piled high on her head. Din stares at her for a moment. She does not wear the _karta beskar_ , so he wonders for a moment what is going on –

“Good afternoon, _Mand’alor_ ,” the woman says to him. “I am Senator Leia Organa. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Din’s mouth works uselessly for several moments as Doctor Shen tilts her head pointedly downwards. He looks down. The Darksaber is hanging on his belt. Belatedly, he remembers he has won it through combat. The Darksaber is _his_. _He is Manda’lor_.

Fuck.

“Hi,” Din says awkwardly. “Uh. M-Mando is fine.”

She only smiles.

* * *

**Original Ending:**

**Title:** The Wedding  
 **Pairing:** None  
 **Word Count:** ~1600  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Author’s Notes:** This is the original ending, no longer applies. Still posting it for those of you who might want to read it, though.

* * *

He cracks his eyes open, grimacing at the shrill screeching emanating from his helmet. Reaching over, he blindly feels along the sheets until his fingers brush up against the cool blue bes’kar, and he pulls his helmet to himself.

“Alarm off,” he croaks out, rubbing his stinging eyes.

It dies away mid-shriek. The pillow sings a siren-song to him, tempting him into staying in bed for the rest of the morning. Yet, the list of responsibilities looms heavily in the back of his mind. Suddenly, he remembers – the wedding is today.

Today.

Rolling up onto his shebs, he rubs at the ache in his back.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Getting too old for this shit.”

He heaves himself to his feet and goes to the shelves where he keeps his clothes, stretching his arms up high and side to side. After dressing for the day, he brushes his teeth in the kitchenette. Then he grabs his helmet, running his fingers along the faded blue paint. After settling it on his head, he heads out, steeling himself for whatever awaits him outside the safety of his room.

“Alor’ad!” one of the newcomers says. “Good morning!”

“Hey Vizsla!”

“Good morning,” he responds.

The first task of the day is to go check on the teenagers, who require the most supervision. Preparing himself for the worst, he heads outside and climbs to the top of the hill. He comes to the top of the hill and his face falls. They had sworn up and down, left and right, repeatedly that they could be trusted to use the rideable grasscutter.

The sight that meets his eyes proves otherwise.

The three eldest ones have crammed themselves into the cab. As they swerve around the massive rock, the grasscutter teeters dangerously, earning a scream and laughter from the others. Paji slams on the accelerator while Nina leans out the opposite side of the cab. After a heart-stopping moment, it topples back onto its belly. Paji skids as Erin and Tali dodge out of the way of the cutter, lobbing handfuls of mud at the windscreen. Tali activates her jetpack and lifts up into the air, shrieking with laughter as the grasscutter narrowly misses her legs.

He shakes himself from his horrified staring and sprints toward them.

“PAJI!” he bellows.

Immediately, the boy slams the brakes on the grasscutter, sending Nina and Shuri flying out of the cab and onto the ground.

“PAJI! What the fuck are you three doing?”

“Running drills, Alor’ad!” Paji says with a mud-covered grin.

“Drills? Drills?” he asks, coming forward a step. “You could have killed someone – “

“Oh, come on,” Paji says, “We took the cutting laser off.”

“YOU DISASSEMBLED – ” His voice rises to a shriek of rage.

Paji laughs.

“I’ll put it back together, don’t worry!” he says. “Field’s done, as ordered!”

He inhales and exhales, pressing his hand against his bucket.

“Clean this mess up,” he barks at the troublemakers. “ALL OF YOU. The wedding is happening tonight. If this field isn’t spotless by sundown, I am going to tell your buire what I saw here.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Yes, Alor’ad!”

“Will do, Vizsla, sir!”

He presses his hand to his helmet, trying to rid himself of the sight of Tali’s legs under the grasscutter. Spirits, he’s not even forty-four yet and he is already going grey. The pack of teens swarms the pile of rakes and paper bags to begin sweeping up the grass trimmings. He stays a few minutes to watch them before returning inside. In the karyai, he finds the prep for the wedding in full swing. Ellyn and some of the gremlins are working on folding and painting paper boxes so the children can make their offerings at the bonfire tonight.

As he makes his way through the karyai, he notes that Armorer is by the heater again. Before she can stand up, he goes to fetch her tray of tea for her.

“Thank you,” she says. “How is it going outside?”

He shakes his head in response. A low noise of despair escapes him.

“That badly, hmm, Vizsla?” she asks, a low laugh escaping her. She coughs, reflexively turning her face toward her elbow. He reaches for her shoulder, but she waves his hand away. “Just a cough, my friend. No need to be concerned.”

He tilts his head. Before he can speak, he hears a shriek and the telltale sound of something expensive hitting the ground. He closes his eyes and exhales.

“Duty calls,” he says grumpily. Armorer laughs in response.

“You have earned every bit of this,” she calls out after him.

He does not dignify that with a response as he goes jogging toward the source of the ruckus. As soon as he comes into view, the children scatter like leaves in the wind. Fortunately, nothing seems to be broken. Everything is just on the floor. He scoops the tools back into the box and shoves it back on the shelf. Dear gods, how could anyone deal with this mayhem? He spends three minutes in meditation before putting his bucket back on.

He meets Dezha in the main hall.

“So, how’s it going with the food?...Wait, do I smell smoke? Why do I smell smoke – “

He starts to go down the hall, but Dezha stops his progress with one hand.

“We only had two fires,” Dezha mutters. “One accidental, one intentional. Both have been handled.”

“Only two fires? That’s a new record low.”

“Why do I continue to suffer?” Dezha asks, shaking his head.

“You volunteered for this, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Dezha groaned. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“This is why I don’t volunteer unless we are running short on buckets. Didn’t you learn this at all?”

He can feel Dezha’s glower through the other man’s helmet. He snickers.

“I should not have let you take control of any of this,” Dezha says. “I should have goored you right into the forge the instant you were nominated.”

“Armorer would have killed you.”

Dezha throws his hands up in frustration and stomps away, earning a bark of laughter from him. Shaking his head, he resumes his duties around the place, looking after his Tribe. Occasionally, he goes outside to check on the monsters. This particular cohort has been…unruly, to say the least. When Paji lifts his flamethrower, he sends out a ping, and the young man immediately lowers his arm. He kicks a rock away from the pile of grass clippings. Then he resumes shoveling the clippings back into the composting bags.

An unruly cohort indeed.

-

That afternoon, as the mayhem reaches full swing, he stops by the field once more. Fortunately, the field has been mown and raked, though there are a few suspicious charred spots. Paji, he groans. What a trouble-maker. He feels another headache starting.

“Hey, Vizsla!”

“What?” he asks, turning in place.

“Your kid wants you,” they say.

He can’t remember their name. They’ve had so many additions to the Tribe that he cannot keep up with them all.

“Fuck, what did he do now?” he groans.

“I couldn’t tell you,” they respond. “Good luck, Alor’ad!”

He sets off for indoors at a brisk trot, his traitorous mind coming up with perfectly reasonable explanations of why his son is asking for him. Probably set something on fire. Or broke it. Or…something. He shakes his head as he comes down the hallway. He finds his ad in the memorial room, kneeling in front of the shelf he had made to honor the members of the Vizsla clan. It was something the Marell tribe had introduced to them a while ago to help the children see their connections to each other.

Ah, he wants to hear the story again, he thinks fondly, a smile crossing his face.

He sinks down next to him.

“Boots?” he asks. In return, he gets a nod.

The shelf is covered in a variety of odd objects that would mean nothing to an outsider – dried yellow flowers, a small piece of charcoal, a crown made of woven sweet-grass, and a piece of raw beskar. He reaches forward and picks up one of the last items tucked carefully onto the narrow wooden shelf.

“This is the Vizsla clan insignia,” he says. “It was given to me by my buir many, many years ago. He told me that one day, I would pass this on to you.”

He glances down at the jai’galaar, wing-feathers elegantly entwined with the spray of blood-red blossoms. He runs his finger along the surface. Though his father had given it to him years ago, it was still as shiny as the day it had been cast.

“Let me tell you the story of how my buire met,” he says softly. “Many years ago, my father met my mother. My mother shot him and they were married a week later, just like his buire did before him. My father was a good man; a noble, _gentle_ man with a kind heart and bottomless pockets full of candy. He’s the one you’re named after, you know.”

He hands the Vizsla insignia over, smiling as his son runs his fingers along the edges.

“My mother had no equal in this Tribe,” he continues softly. “Fierce, and bright, with an eye for attention, and a tendency to forget things. She was like a beacon, ner ad, a star so bright she drew us to her and captured us in her orbit. From there, things fell naturally, and we became our own tiny clan of three.”

His son reaches for the tin. Smiling down at him, he opens it, and places the tiny wooden loth cat statue into the palm of his hand.

“It was her favorite,” Zephyr says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando’a Translations:**
> 
> beskar - Mandalorian steel  
> shebs - ass  
> Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur. - Today is a good day for someone else to die.  
> Oya - Good hunt!  
> keldabe kiss - form of affection, forehead bonk  
> Ori’jate sur’haaise, jai’galaar’ika - Here, it means excellent aim, little shriekhawk. Lit: Excellent eyes, little shriekhawk.  
> di'kut - idiot  
> Alor - leader  
> verd - soldier  
> Mand'alor - leader of the Mandalorian people  
> aruetii(se) - outsider(s)  
> buir - parent  
> vod - brother, comrade, friend  
> Ni dirycir ner kovid - an apology I made up that literally translates to "I lower my head." Here, it means "I lower my head in submission." Basically his way of saying I know my place, no need for you to put me back in it.


	11. Dreams, Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Mentions of Paz Vizsla x Reader  
>  **Wordcount:** ~8500  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Warnings:** Mild injury and some bleeding, mentions of death and torture (but nothing graphic)  
>  **Author’s Notes:** It has been a long time since I updated this series, so please accept my apologies for that delay. I've got a lot of other stuff going on right now and it's been difficult finding the time/will to write this particular series. I started another story – Shereshoy – that details the week where Paz’s parents meet and fall in love. There are some details in this chapter that carry over from there, but you don’t need to read it to get the idea. I have yet to upload Shereshoyhere, but you can read it on tumblr under @anxiety-riddled-mando for now if you'd like.

Being dead _sucks_ , Paz Vizsla decides.

Upon first opening his eyes, he had been expecting to see his beloved Shushi and his fallen _vode_ waiting for him to join them in their endless, glorious hunt. He had been hoping for sprawling open fields bathed in golden sunlight. He had wanted to see the children – the ones who had gone on to march far too early – raising hell once more. Maybe it had been _too_ much for him to want. If it wasn’t possible for him to spend his eternity with you at his side, Paz might have even settled for a tent and a campfire.

But this.

This _really_ sucks.

He is by himself again, standing – maybe floating? – in an endless sea of hazy grey that stretches on as far as the eye can see in every direction, so big and open that it feels like an oppressive weight closing in around him. He tries closing his eyes, but he feels so exposed in that weird fog that he immediately opens them again. He looks down. Well, at least his body made it here in one piece, he thinks, staring down at himself.

It is, however, unfortunate that his armor did not follow, nor his clothes. Well, he entered life naked. It is only fitting that he leaves it the same way. Paz closes his eyes. He is so tired. So, he drifts along for a while. Sometimes, he is aware of himself. Other times, he sleeps…or something like it. Even though he is naked and exposed, the temperature is perfectly comfortable, verging on warm. He finds it easy to rest in this strange grey world.

Soon, however, _boredom_ sets in.

Paz never thought he would be bored in the Manda. He quietly grumbles to himself, sour at not being able to spend eternity in his beloved’s embrace. He had longed to see your face for even just a moment so he could cherish the memory for eternity. Now, he can only see his body and the endless grey. He can’t smell, taste, or hear anything. After several wake-not-really-sleep cycles, Paz finds himself growing impatient and angry at the injustice of the situation.

“If I had known that being dead would be this _fucking boring_ , I would have stayed alive,” he bellows into the void in a fit of anger, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Before the echoes of his voice fade away, he suddenly falls flat on his face onto the ground. He is so surprised by the heavy gravity weighing down his limbs that he cannot move. For a few breaths, he stays there, taking in the dry dusty scent of sunbaked earth. Then he hears the lull of insects in the distance, occasionally punctuated by the soft rush of wind in the grass.

Paz sits up and smiles as he takes in his surroundings, heart filling with joy.

Now _this_ is more like it, he thinks to himself, as he pushes himself up onto his feet. This is the Manda he had expected to see. A broad, open field of grass, purple-blue and tickling his calves in the light breeze. As he scans his surroundings, he finds himself woefully alone.

His heart sinks, but he bolsters himself. Maybe he is the first one here? Well, at least he will have nice scenery if he is going to be alone for the rest of eternity. Maybe he will find something to hunt here. Glancing down, he purses his lips. He should find something to protect himself with.

He hears a noise and turns around. Surprise fills him at the sight of the woman. He does not recognize her. Deep brown hair, green eyes, and far too tall to be his beloved _Shu’shika_. Her beautifully embroidered garments are achingly familiar to him. However, he cannot recall exactly where he has seen the bold patterns and colors before.

“Who are you?” he asks coolly, hands falling to cover himself.

“Can you _please_ imagine yourself wearing pants, please?” she asks, pointedly looking away from him. “This is _not_ how I wanted to see you again.”

His good cheer dissipates. Of all the fucking people to greet him in death, it _had_ to be _her_. Zeli Basann, woman who had ripped out his heart and stomped it into smithereens. She had destroyed his soul. Why couldn’t it have been you to greet him in the afterlife? Or his _buire_?

“Oh, go and fuck yourself,” he snaps at her, unable to help the growl in his voice.

She turns away as mortification fills him. Imagine himself wearing pants? He closes his eyes tightly and imagines himself wearing his armor and _kute_. Even as the weight of his armor settles across his body, it feels _wrong_. Maybe he just got used to being naked. He rarely had the chance to strip down completely in the world of the living. She turns back when he sighs dramatically.

“Is this hell?” he asks bluntly, patting his holsters for his weapons.

She scowls at him. For some reason, _that_ looks familiar.

“It’s nice to see you too, Paz,” Zeli responds dryly. “I do suppose I deserved that, though.”

He inhales, then exhales.

“Sorry. I was expecting someone else,” he says, considering she knows far more about this place than he does. No sense in pissing her off if she can help him. “Not you.”

She nods once at him in response, shrugging her shoulders.

“Understandable. So. You must have a lot of questions.”

“Yeah. To start, where is my wife?” he asks bluntly. “If there’s anyone I want to spend eternity with, it’s her. Not you.”

“She’s not here,” Zeli says softly, staring off at the horizon, her fingers fidgeting with the embroidery along her sleeves. “She’s still alive, Paz.”

Paz is not prepared for the intense relief that fills him. He almost collapses on the spot to know you have a chance to keep going forward. He closes his eyes. You have a life to live, one that unfortunately will not include him any longer. It hurts to think of you with another warrior, raising those _verd’ika_ you had so shyly asked him for. But he is dead, and you are alive. The crossing into the Manda nullifies any oath made between the living, even those of marriage.

It…it hurts.

He had been alone for so many years. But at least he had you as his wife for those few minutes. More than what some others had in their lives. While Paz will never forget the love he has for you, he will have an eternity to adjust and learn to accept it. There is nothing he can do but accept it. He can’t imagine asking you to live the decades alone, pining for him. It would be purely selfish of him. He gathers his wits about himself, trying to ignore the pang behind his ribs.

“Good,” he says gruffly. “Hopefully, she won’t be here for many years. Where are we?”

“We are looking at what awaits us in the Manda,” she responds serenely, tilting her head at the horizon.

A chill climbs up his spine at her words as he looks over.

The grass blurs most peculiarly, like a mirage formed under baking summer sunlight. The now empty horizon is full of activity, dots becoming blurs and finally taking the form of people and yurts. Paz spots a banner in front of the closest yurt and his heart leaps into his throat.

The memories of a long-ago childhood come flooding back to him, filling him with scents and names he never knew he had forgotten.

A yurt in a vivid, eye-watering shade of blue, decorated with elaborate appliqued designs – that yurt is _definitely_ his _Ba’vodu_ Jala’s. He remembers how she preened at the way people would gush over her hand-woven fabric and carefully made leather goods. The smell of leather – sweet and smoky – as she showed him how to weave designs into fabric. He remembers the way the colors tasted in his mind’s eye, vibrant –

Then he spots a banner in brown and silver. His great- _Ba’vodu_ Sikkina. The fabric flutters in the silent breeze and he sees three knives – one for each decade as the clan butcher. He remembers sitting beside her on the bench, the quiet _snkt-snkt_ as she sharpened her blades on the whetstone. Her soft voice as she tells him stories about how _she_ remembered a time when they only had electricity during the summers –

A forest-green tent with crates and sacks haphazardly stacked by the entrance. Great- _Ba’vodu_ Darred, he recalls. He was a farmer. Paz remembers spending entire days out in the fields with the _strille_ , catching rabbits for dinner. Great- _Ba’vodu_ Darred would pay him with a massive stack of burning-hot scallion pancakes and a bottle of something fizzy and sweet. Paz remembers the sound of his great uncle singing to him until he fell asleep, his calloused fingers strumming a stringed instrument he cannot name –

A silvery head swims into view. A knot forms in his throat as the loth-cat tilts her head at him.

“Aguilla,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

She sits back on her haunches, a proud loth-cat smirk on her face. Paz remembers the way she would follow him and Din everywhere they would go. The way she took on – and actually _killed_ – a coyote twice her size to protect them. She was their second mother, the family joked. Everything she did was to keep them safe, up until the very end. Paz remembers the smell of smoke and her panicked howls. The sound of her claws ripping apart the canvas of his collapsed tent to free him –

Aguilla shakes her head, stopping him from wandering down that path to relive that morning. Then she hops off the crate and disappears. Suddenly, his eyes feel dry, and he blinks rapidly. The colors fade and the mirage starts to blur.

Disappointment fills him. Paz makes to step forward, but Zeli’s hand darts out and lands on his bracer. Even with a thick layer of metal and padding between them, he feels ice in his veins. He jerks away as she gives him a wry smile.

“Paz, you are not here either,” Zeli says. “You are _close_. But you are not _here._ ”

He inhales, head swiveling sharply to face her.

“It feels like I have been here for years already.”

“It’s been three hours and forty-seven minutes since the building came down. You and your beloved did well by taking shelter where you did. Those desks – and your body – are the only things keeping your beloved Shushi alive.”

He falls silent. It feels _wrong_ to hear your nickname coming from Zeli, of all people. He can’t help himself as he immediately begins to fret over you, a thousand thoughts taking flight like a chaotic flock of _de’kath_ birds.

“Is she okay? Is she injured – “

“Yes, she’s perfectly fine,” Zeli says. “You, on the other hand…your body is _badly_ damaged…” She trails off and exhales, sadness filling her eyes. Paz stares back out across the field. He _longs_ to see his _vode_ , to hear their voices rising in song one last time. The fire flickers, spilling warm orange light onto the packed earth surrounding it. It looks so warm and inviting. The figures seem to become more corporeal.

“Can I rest for just a few minutes?” he asks, feeling the exhaustion fill his bones. “Warm my hands up?”

“Paz, if you cross this field, you will be leaving her behind forever.”

For a moment, he _wants_ to cross the field. He _wants_ to rest. Zeli gives him a sad look, her hair swaying lightly in the breeze.

“If you stayed here, would you ever forgive yourself?”

He looks at her in confusion.

“You have spent so much of your life caring for others and not yourself,” Zeli whispers. “Feeling guilt for not being able to provide enough. Second-guessing every decision for fear of failure. Hating yourself, thinking you are not strong enough. Shouldering the weight of responsibilities that were never meant for you to bear.”

“It’s my job,” he retorts immediately. “It’s my job to be strong for the Tribe.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. You know as well as I do that none of this was your fault,” Zeli says. “You need to forgive yourself, Paz. Let _go_ of the past. Accept that you did the best you could, given the circumstances.”

“I can’t do that,” Paz interrupts angrily. “I can’t just _forget_ – “

Zeli huffs. She stops just in front of him, a handspan away. He can feel the freezing cold radiating off her body, and it feels so _wrong_. He shivers and backs away a step. He gives the fire another look, desperately wanting to warm his fingertips.

“Paz. You need to let the past go. You know as well as I do that you are not to blame for _anything_ that has happened to you,” Zeli says, her voice breaking. “Your wife _needs_ you, Paz, more than you could ever know.”

“Do I deserve to go back?” he asks. “Do I deserve a second chance?”

“Where is that stubborn, proud warrior I knew? The one who would throw himself headfirst at a problem until he could conquer it?”

Paz so badly wants to tell her that the Paz she once knew no longer exists. Life itself had destroyed that part of him. He’s not proud of the warrior he was back then. He’s not sure if he is proud of the man he is today. His failures to provide, to protect, and to teach. How many _vode_ had gone marching on because of him?

“I’m a failure.”

She inhales quietly, eyes shooting up to his visor.

“Paz,” she begins.

“I have failed so many people,” Paz confesses quietly. “I’ve failed my _cyar’ika_ already. I took her into town. Had I gone alone – “

A thunderous look crosses Zeli’s face and she advances, jabbing one finger into his breast plate. He skitters away from her cold.

“Had you gone alone, you would have been captured, tortured, and stripped of your helmet. You would have exiled yourself,” she snaps. “Had you brought the ship instead of the bike, the Imps would have attached a tracker to the hull. The entire Tribe would have been slaughtered. Had you _not_ gone into town, Gideon would have enslaved every person there. Had you arrived early, the informant would have killed your _cyar’ika_.”

He freezes, staring at her.

“What?” he gasps. “What do you – “

“The only reason she still lives right now is because you have shielded her body with yours,” Zeli says, her tone less aggressive. “You cannot foretell the future, Paz. You have done _everything_ you can to fulfill the vows you swore to her. Do not abandon her now when _you have the choice_ to go back to her.”

“I have a choice?” he chokes out. “I don’t have to stay here?”

“No,” Zeli says softly. “You don’t have to stay here with us.”

Liam hovers at the edge of the field next to great- _Ba’vodu_ Darred and waves at him. Then he signs for him to _leave_ _already_. Zeli smiles over her shoulder at him, fondness softening her gaze. Paz swallows, expecting it to _hurt_. But it doesn’t. It is only a mild discomfort, as if seeing a picture of an old injury.

“Why?” Paz asks. “Why did the two of you – “

Zeli closes her eyes.

“I was selfish. I loved you, but I fell out of love with you. And I was a coward. I was _such a coward._ I couldn’t let you go,” she says quietly. He watches as tears roll down her face. “Paz, I truly am sorry for hurting you. You do not know the regret I still carry within me.”

Paz swallows and looks away. He has never been a liar. This is his only chance to tell her.

“I can’t say I will ever forget what you two did. I…I understand. About you falling out of love and being a coward,” Paz says. “But I have forgiven you. I forgave you a long time ago.”

It feels like a weight leaves him. Paz rubs his hand over his breast plate, wondering if it had always been there, as if he had become blind to its presence over the years. Zeli lets out a low sob as she reaches up to wipe the tears off her face.

“I never deserved you,” she chokes out. “Thank you, Paz. _Thank you_.”

Sudden warmth engulfs him as she hugs him. Paz awkwardly pats her shoulder. Then she steps back, wiping tears off her face. She looks up at him, a radiant smile on her face.

“Let us go,” Zeli says quietly. “You have provided for your tribe, Paz. Now it’s time for you to provide for your family. Go back to your wife. Go back to Zeph. Put your needs and wants first.”

He stares down at the ground. Suddenly, the grass doesn’t look nearly as pretty. The self-doubt begins to melt away as he looks at the people on the other side of the field. The fire has lost its warmth and color. This is not where he belongs.

One last thing comes to mind.

“About us…adopting Zeph,” he says awkwardly.

Zeli lets out a familiar, boisterous laugh.

“You _di’kut_ ,” she exclaims with a tear-filled smile. “Why would we begrudge him for finding someone who loves and cherishes him as much as we did in life?”

She grasps his elbow and begins to guide him away from the field. Back toward the grey void. Suddenly, it is no longer as frightening to him.

“He might be a grown warrior, but he possesses a kind and gentle soul. He craves love and affection the same way you crave the thrill of the hunt. Do you really think that he would suffer from having more loved ones in his life?”

“No,” he says gruffly, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

“The word _buir_ might mean parent in the broadest sense, but it has a different meaning for each of us,” Zeli says softly. “His biological parents gave him life and protected him with their lives.” She gestures back at two unfamiliar people dancing by the fire.

“Liam gave him a soul and raised him until we married. We protected him with our lives.” Liam signs _di’kut_ at him from across the field. Paz sends back a crude gesture in response.

“And you were there from the moment he was left alone until now, guiding him and teaching him to the best of your ability. You took him in as your own. Before you knew her as your wife, _Shu’shika_ was there every step of the way, patiently guiding that stubborn child.”

He swallows around the knot in his throat.

“We have all played different roles in his life. The love he has for each one of us is different and special. You are not replacing us, Paz. You _cannot_ replace any of us. You and _Shu’shika_ could only _add_ to his life, Paz. Do you understand?”

“I…I think I do,” he whispers hoarsely. “Never wanted to…to try and…”

“Then let go of all your self-doubts,” Zeli says. “Let it all go.”

“Is any of this real?” he asks her. She turns confused green eyes up at him. “How do I know anything you’ve said is true? How do I know this place is real?”

She laughs, a static-filled noise that echoes across the field, and comes to a halt at the very edge of the grass.

“Maybe this is the Manda,” she says, looking at the back of her hand. “Maybe we are all the _vode_ who have gone on marching before you. Maybe I was sent to make sure you go back to your beloved. To send you back to the world of the living with words of comfort and assurance.”

“Comfort – ?” he repeats.

“Paz, you have faced so many difficulties in life already. No matter what happens in the future, no matter what trials you will face, you must know that you possess the strength to overcome it all. So long as you have your beloved by your side…you will succeed.”

“Trials?” he repeats. “What trials?”

She smiles up at him and the people behind her begin to blur. He tears his eyes away from them and to Zeli. Even she is beginning to blur at the edges.

“Maybe this is a figment of your imagination. Maybe your body really is dying, bleeding out under a pile of rubble, and this dream is the result of your last few living neurons firing in a desperate attempt to stay conscious.”

He is horrified.

“That…is not at all reassuring.”

She shrugs.

“I genuinely don’t know what this is, Paz,” she says. “In the end, does it matter? You are not going to remember any of this, anyway.”

A sweet gust of wind picks up in the west, coaxing him back. He can smell flowers, citrus, and sun cherries in the air. He can smell warm, earthy spices. It smells like home. He looks at the fire, where he can see people watching him. He tilts his head, a silent goodbye for now. He takes a half-step back. Then he turns around and starts walking away, following the scent of home.

“Let the dead go,” Zeli calls after him. “Live your life, Paz.”

The further he gets away from Zeli, the faster he walks. Then he breaks into a jog, watching as the grass starts to fade into grey haze once more. In the distance, he can see silvery light. The air grows warmer, thicker in his lungs. As he begins to sprint, his limbs feel heavier and heavier, as if the haze is trying to pull him back. Paz just pushes through it, the mantra of _home_ and _family_ repeating itself over and over in his mind until he can think of nothing else. Just when he is beginning to despair, he slams into a wall.

Rather, it feels like a Corellian freighter has hit _him_ at full speed. Light floods his eyes as he struggles to breathe, every single nerve in his body screaming in pure agony.

_“ – still alive? – “_

_“MOVE!”_

The bellow from Doctor Shen startles him straight out of the fog. He tries to move but it feels like there’s a mudhorn sitting on his chest – he gasps for air, it’s thick and dusty and he can taste blood in his mouth –

“ _– abnormal cardiac rhythm, applying electrical stimulation now_ – “

And then there’s a bone-jarring blow to his chest, like that mudhorn has rammed itself into him at full speed again. It burns through his chest like magma, adding a whole new layer of agony to his suffering, but at least the mudhorn on his chest is gone now. A deafening thud starts to pound in his ears and he realizes it’s his _heartbeat_ -

“ _– BACTA! NOW!”_

Paz feels a comforting weight in his arms and he forces his eyes open. He can see himself in your visor, his helmet distorted by the curvature of the glass, but you are _there,_ safe in his arms. Everything hurts so, so badly but he’s finally home, and he isn’t leaving. He feels a pinprick of pain in the back of his neck and numbness begins to burn its way through his body.

It hurts, but it’s a different type of hurt, the kind that leaves him feeling numb and sleepy. He feels hands at his arms and he struggles to keep them away from you. He swore he would not let them put their filthy hands on you, and he will die before he lets it happen.

Through the haze, he hears a gentle _clink_ of metal against metal and a slight pressure against his head. Then he hears Din’s voice, hoarse and filled with tears.

_“Paz, it’s okay. I’m here. I have you, ori’vod. You are safe now.”_

Paz closes his eyes and sinks into the warm, comforting abyss that yawns up before him. Rest. Time to rest. He is safe. You are safe. _Safe_.

Home.

He is home now.

* * *

Zephyr lands the Desert Lark deep inside the canyon, inching in sideways until the rocky overhang hides most of the ship from aerial view. They’ll have to use a tarp and hope for the best. He slides down the ladder and into the hold, listening as some of the children whine to be let out. He can’t blame them for feeling trapped and cooped up in the hold. They have been flying for nearly sixteen hours now.

“Bayl, Graf, and Miri – you three are with me,” he says, watching as the three young warriors snap to attention. “While we’re clearing the bolthole, I want Theala up in the cockpit. Engines are still on. If we’re not back in twenty minutes, you leave.”

Theala – not even fifteen years old – nods shakily.

“I-I’m not sure about how to plot jumps,” she whispers.

“Jalyn, can you go up with her?”

“Did we get a new program to fly by braille?” Jalyn asks with a grin.

Someone laughs nervously at Jalyn’s joke and Zephyr sighs.

“You plot our routes, _di’kut_ ,” Zephyr says patiently.

“That I can do,” Jalyn says, getting to his feet. With one hand on the wall, he makes his way over to the ladder, and starts climbing up. Zephyr sighs and shakes his head.

He delegates duties to the rest of the crew, reminding them to check on the elderly. From there, Zephyr heads to Paz’s stash and borrows a few of the weapons. The others come to grab supplies as well. Once he’s fully laden, Zephyr glances at the other three, eyes skimming over their gear to ensure they’ve got the supplies they will need. He can’t risk anyone being left without ammunition.

“Miri, you’re with me,” he says. “I will take point. We clear each room, one at a time. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to do two sweeps. You remember the games Garan and Dezha played with us?”

Miri nods silently. He thinks she’s a bit shy, but he knows that with time, she will be an excellent hunter. Zephyr picks up the shotgun, letting his hands rest lightly on the polished barrel. This was – _is_ , he corrects himself – one of Paz’s favorites. He will make the two of you proud, Zephyr thinks to himself.

Lowering the ramp, he leads the way out into the reddish desert landscape. As they approach the narrow crevasse where the door is hidden, he checks the stubby bush. The branches had been trimmed at some point. Now, there are several months of growth here. The visitors have either moved on or gotten lazy. Zephyr rests the shotgun against his thigh as he begins to turn the wheel to open the door.

It sticks and the door groans as he carefully opens it, checking for any signs of tampering. Finding none, he pulls it open all the way, and steps in, activating his helmet lights at the same time. He takes point as Miri takes her place behind him.

He signs at the other three.

_One room at a time, we cover each other._

They acknowledge his orders, and they begin to move forward. Zephyr slides into the room first, Miri at his heels, as they work. From ceiling to floor, every corner is checked for potential intruders. The hideout is much smaller than he remembers, he thinks, as they clear each room. It is smaller than their lodgings on Nevarro, he realizes, as they come to the last room. Finding a small pair of sandals and a dusty pillow confirms that someone else stayed here at some point.

_Start again, swap point_.

Miri takes point this time, to ensure he hasn’t missed anything, and he covers her as they work their way back to the front. When everything is confirmed safe, he leads the way back to the ship. At least one thing has gone according to plan, he consoles himself. But he won’t celebrate just yet. Not until he’s home with his family.

“All clear,” he says to everyone. “Theala, you can turn the engines off.”

The engines disengage and power down.

“We’ll bring everyone in for food, water, and a chance to clean up,” Zephyr says, glancing at everyone. “If you’ve been trained to use a blaster, I want you armed.”

He gets nods and ‘ayes’ from the rest of the crew.

“Merak, Kai, I want the two of you to help me check the ship over,” Zephyr continues. “Miri, Bayl, I want you two to get everyone settled in.”

He passes out weapons to those who have been trained. After moving some of the crates off the ship, he takes a minute to gather his thoughts. One of the key things Paz had taught him was to keep morale up when stressors are high. Even though he can’t see anyone’s face, he can see the fear and anxiety that radiates from their body language.

They need to get off the ship for a few hours, if not overnight. They had fled their old home in a panic. Now, he needs to plan their next course of action to avoid detection by the Empire. He glances up at the sky – clear, with high, thin clouds stained orange by the setting sun. He takes in a deep breath to try and quell the nauseated feeling in his gut. They are safe for now. As he starts delegating tasks out to the others – get the children cleaned up and fed – he does his best to avoid thinking about the rest of the Tribe. He has his family here to look after.

He distracts himself by examining the list Revala had shoved into his hands before departure. Every hunter had their own notes on places they had found. Nothing was kept stored digitally, of course, to avoid it falling into the wrong hands, but everyone had been eager to help them hide. There’s a river about twenty kilometers north of here, but that’s it by way of natural resources.

Zephyr sighs. This is not a good place for them to linger for more than a day or two.

Once everyone has been cleaned, fed, and watered, he has them gather. Not that he has to ask – everyone had congregated in one of the bigger rooms, reluctant to let each other out of their sight. The littlest ones are asleep on a blanket someone had spread out on the floor for them. Everyone looks exhausted and terrified. As soon as he comes into view, everyone turns to him, looking for guidance, something that still brings a nervous pang to his stomach.

“So, what now?” Jalyn asks, breaking the silence.

“Ship’s in good shape,” Zephyr says, nodding to Merak and Kai. “We don’t need to make any repairs right now.”

“That’s good to know,” someone says.

“Aside from that, we are at about eighty percent fuel,” Zephyr says, as the older children start to pay attention. “We need credits. With thirty-five mouths to feed, the supplies we loaded up are not going to last very long.”

“With adults on survival rations, we have about a week in storage,” Jalyn says quietly. “We’ll need to find some place where we can set up a base of operations and start getting food put aside.”

Zephyr nods. He opens his map of the region and zooms in, settling in near the adults.

“This is Somara,” Zephyr says. “Paz introduced me to the Guildmaster there.”

“We can’t afford to not have a ship.”

“If anything happens to you, we’ll be stuck,” Merak interjects. “We don’t have _any_ backup.”

“I’m aware of that,” Zephyr responds. “I was going to see if she had non-bounty work available. She’s got a lot of contacts in the area.”

Something about the way she had looked at him and at Paz tells him that she knows more than she lets on. He can only hope that she will be willing to help him.

“Is there any guarantee of there being work available on Somara?” Kai asks.

“No,” he says in all honesty. “There is no guarantee.”

He hears voices starting to whisper amongst themselves, so he cuts them off before they can get too vocal about their protests. He has a headache already, and there are many reasons why Paz liked Somara, including its natural resources. Something tells him that it would be a good idea to go there first.

“Somara is covered in forests,” Zephyr says. “While we were there, we saw plenty of game. If I remember correctly, they’re heading into their summer right now. If anything happens…we will have a source of protein for a few months.”

Jalyn nods, thinking on his words.

“From what I recall, there’s been no reports of Empire activity there,” Jalyn says slowly. “If it’s still safe, and we find someplace to set up camp…” He trails off. “Have we gotten word from any of the other Tribes?” Jalyn asks.

“No,” Zephyr says quietly. “Once Empire activity was confirmed…everyone went radio silent.”

Everyone is following orders. Hunkering down until the storm blows over. Jalyn sighs.

“I think Somara is a good place to start,” Jalyn says. “No Empire activity, plenty of fresh water, and a source of protein. Maybe a source of credits if the Guildmaster can find local work for you.”

“There are farms spread out around the town,” Zephyr says. “If anything, I can pick up some physical labor to get some credits.”

“We could spare some hands here,” Merak offers immediately. “Kai and I are strong. We can help.”

“One Mandalorian draws enough attention as it is,” Zephyr reminds. “Three of us looking for work…”

Merak sighs grumpily.

“If it comes to that, we will discuss it further,” Zephyr says. “But for now, we need to take care of the immediate problems. Food, water, and shelter. And Somara gives us an opportunity to look for credits and news once we get those three problems sorted out.”

He doesn’t like the idea of going somewhere without a solid plan in place, but there’s nowhere else to go. No friendly Tribe to take them in. No allies. As of right now, they are truly alone. One by one, the others chime in their agreement to the plan. Somehow, the fact that everyone trusts him enough to not fight him feels worse than being argued with.

“We’ll spend the night here,” Zephyr says. “We’ll be on our way tomorrow after breakfast. We need to set up a watch shift as well.”

“We’ll go first,” Merak cuts in. “You need to sleep.”

Sudden exhaustion fills him. He wants to argue, but Jalyn puts one hand on his shoulder.

“You need to eat and sleep as well,” Jalyn says quietly.

His stomach roars and his head swims. He concedes defeat.

“Yeah, I need food,” Zephyr says. “I haven’t eaten since…yesterday, I think.”

After a lukewarm meal, Zephyr wraps a towel around a rock and reclines next to the door. He keeps the shotgun at his side. No matter what he does, he cannot keep his eyes closed for more than a few moments. He remembers the last night they had together as a Tribe. The tables filled with people eating and drinking. Those who could not remove their helmets before others taking turns in the converted storage space. People talking, laughing, and swapping stories.

You and Paz loitering in the hallway, reluctant to part after your shared meal, both still dripping water onto the ground. He had been eager to ask Paz how the date had gone but refrained upon seeing the two of you in the hallway. He had fallen asleep before Paz had gotten back. He had still been asleep while Paz had taken you into town. He wonders if the lunch he had been trying to make was still sitting on the counter.

Zephyr exhales and forces his eyes shut. Sleep first. He can worry tomorrow.

* * *

Din sits down on the overly plush armchair and sinks into the cushion as he tries to get comfortable. Senator Organa seats herself in the seat opposite his. She gives him a warm smile as she crosses one ankle behind the other. Din just watches her. The flick of her eyes at his visor indicates she knows he’s watching her, yet her smile never wavers. It reaches her eyes, though he can see a bit of a hard edge there, as if wary of _his_ intentions. Din is usually good at gauging a person’s intentions, but she is almost unreadable, even to his keen eyes.

“I’m having rooms prepared for the two of you,” she says, breaking the silence. “I have arranged for the cook to have food brought to your rooms later tonight.”

“Thank you,” Din says politely.

“Formality and polite society dictate that I offer you a beverage,” the woman says, as she pours a stream into a fine china cup. “However, I get the feeling that it will be declined.”

“Yes, it would be. But thank you,” he says, watching her hands as she scoops a spoonful of sugar into the cup and stirs. She takes a sip, closes her eyes, and inhales. Then she opens her eyes again as she exhales.

“Do you prefer social niceties, or would you prefer me to be more direct?” she asks.

He can’t help the quirk of his lips.

“I prefer directness,” he responds.

“How refreshing,” she says, putting the teacup down. “We will be coming to Neberrin in about a day,” she says. “We have a base of operations there that can provide long-term care for your family members, depending on the extent of the damage your brother sustained.”

The silence hangs as he considers her words. This will cost him something, even if she said it was an act of mercy from the New Republic. He just does not know _what_ she could ask for in return. He decides to ask.

“What will their treatment cost us?” he asks bluntly, watching as Doctor Shen turns her head in his direction from his side cam.

She was probably thinking the same thing. Senator Organa does not seem at all surprised by his question.

“On paper, this will be seen as a gesture of good will from the New Republic,” Senator Organa says. “Diplomatically, however, there will be certain expectations of you, as leader of your people.”

“I see,” Din says, carefully modulating his tone. “What sort of expectations?”

She mirrors his earlier smile, leaning back in her seat. She looks at ease in his presence. Few people – even the _aruetiise_ who trust him – are ever really comfortable in his presence.

“That can be discussed after your family have been treated and have recuperated,” she says. “I have no intentions of holding this over your head, nor allowing my peers to do so.”

“I don’t enter agreements without knowing what debts I will owe in exchange,” he responds.

“That is a fair point,” she says. “You are right to have these concerns. I think what most people will want to know is what happened.”

Information. Makes sense that they will want to know what it means for _them_ if his people know they have a _Mand’alor_.

“Those who survived The Purge either assimilated into their local culture or went into hiding,” Din says with a shrug of his shoulders.

She nods contemplatively, a small frown appearing between her brows.

“How long have you had the Darksaber?” she asks.

It is through decades of training that he does not outwardly respond to her question. He blinks and fights the urge to look to Doctor Shen. How could she possibly know?

“I wondered why she had fallen out of contact,” she continues, seemingly not noticing his stiff posture. “Did she pass it on to you?”

“I won it from Moff Gideon shortly before I executed him,” Din says.

This time, she does react. Her head jerks up and she looks at him directly. Then she stares at him questioningly for a moment.

“As in…four hours ago?” she asks.

Ah, _shit_.

“Uh…”

He hears Doctor Shen sigh quietly. Senator Organa takes another sip of her tea and puts it back down. She leans back against the cushion, giving him another appraising look.

“That explains a lot,” she says.

Well, now that he’s outed himself as newly instated in his position, he has lost any advantage he might have had. He wonders what she will demand of him now. He braces himself as she smiles.

“As I said, it will take about a day for us to come to Neberrin,” she says. “However, the communication relays are outdated. It may take three days for transmissions to make it back to the Senate.”

Din blinks. He can’t understand why it would be relevant to mention how long communications will take. If anything, he’s worried about the rest of the Tribe. He needs to communicate with them.

“It may take a few days to write a formal report,” she continues. “Furthermore, I also need to help mediate an argument about mining rights on Levisia.”

Din has no idea what she might be suggesting.

“If you just so happened to wish to accompany me, as a gesture of _your_ good will, I certainly would not decline,” she says meaningfully. “After all, the presence of a Mandalorian warrior would make most pirates think twice about attacking a peaceful envoy.”

_Oh_.

It makes sense now. Din has no idea what she would stand to gain from offering him assistance, but he decides to take the offered hand, so to speak. The New Republic has a far bigger reach than he has on his own. He could use it to his advantage.

“The negotiations might take another week to conclude,” she continues. “Your doctor, of course, would be left with written orders giving her final authority over your family’s treatment to avoid any conflicts in our absence.”

She watches him for another moment.

“I will think about what you have said,” Din says, figuring that he needs a minute to _think_. He suddenly feels a bit nauseous. “I appreciate your offer.”

“You’re _bleeding_ ,” she says, head dipping down.

Din glances down at the fancy cushion he had been leaning against. It is now a rusty shade of red.

“ _Osik_ ,” he says as Doctor Shen hurtles toward him. “Doctor, it’s not serious – “

“Shut up and let me see,” she says in a voice that stops his protests.

Din reaches up to remove his cuirass. Then he unzips the flak vest. At the splotch of red standing out so starkly against the light grey fabric, he realizes he might have bled a little more than he intended. She reaches into her bag for a hypospray and starts loading it up.

“I will _end_ you,” she hisses. “I swear it to you.”

“You know, swearing an oath to the _Mand’alor_ should not be taken lightly,” Din says, unable to stop himself. Probably blood loss, he thinks, as she shoots him a look he can feel through her visor.

“That’s why I did it,” she snarls in response. “It’s not deep. You’ll need some bacta and a bandage.”

“I told you it wasn’t serious,” he says easily. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll call for a medical droid,” Senator Organa says. “You have full use of our facilities.”

“Thank you,” Doctor Shen says. The other woman presses a button on a panel and starts sending out orders. Din presses his arm down across the shallow wound, mortification filling him.

“Sorry for bleeding on your chair,” he says.

“It’s quite alright, _Mand’alor_ ,” she responds. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Before Din can ask how many other people have bled out on her furniture, the medical droid wheels into the room. She rises to her feet, tilting her head in their direction.

“I’ll let you have privacy,” she says. “If you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask.”

With that, she glides out of the room, her attention focused on her data pad. Doctor Shen clucks her tongue and begins to scold him as she tends to his wound. Din doesn’t argue with her. He finds himself curious about their generous host and her lack of apprehension toward him.

* * *

[Flashback]

Standing in front of your mirror, you give yourself a little pep talk. It’s been a while since the new hunters joined your Tribe, and you have yet to work up the courage to spend more than a few minutes with anyone. Well, except the children. They’ve settled in immediately, making themselves at home in the hallways. You inhale deeply. Hold for a moment. Exhale deeply. They are _vode_ now. New _vode_. If they decide to become part of your Tribe, they will be your family.

_I am Mandalorian_ , you remind yourself, staring into your own eyes. _We make do with what we are given. And we have been given new Tribe members. Maybe one day, they will be our family._

Peering down at the counter, you absently push one of your ragged cuticles up, making a note to perform that part of your self-care routine soon. The Elder who had spoken on behalf of her people had said that her _verde_ would be coming back soon from their hunts. Though there was no threat in her voice, it was clear that it was a warning to you all.

Something had happened to their Tribe, and it would be best to tread lightly around the warriors. Grabbing your toiletry bag, you tend to your daily self-care tasks.

You are _not_ scared. Just…apprehensive.

You nod at yourself in the mirror and tidy up your space. After lacing up your boots and tying the laces snugly, you head downstairs. Before you get to your station, you find yourself directed to the _karyai_. Avoiding the raised edge on the concrete steps, you make your way down and jog toward the people in the center of the room.

_Osik_ , you’re late.

You lament your stupid pep talk and circle around to the back of the group, wondering if you can find a spot to see _Alor_. Before you get too far, you collide with something that feels like a wall made of pure _beskar_. As you fall back flat on your _shebs_ , you stare up at a big blue wall made of pure _beskar_. You don’t recognize the armor, nor would you have mistaken him for someone in your Tribe. He is tall. Taller than anyone you have ever met before.

“ _Su’cuy_ ,” you blurt out, craning your head back to meet his visor.

“Watch where you are going,” he says sharply, offering his hand.

“I didn’t see you there,” you stammer out, placing your hand in his.

He lets out a disbelieving grunt as he hauls you up onto your feet. The massive warrior misjudges your weight – and possibly his strength – and nearly rips your arm out of its socket as he yanks you up. Of course, you trip over your bootlace and slam into his cuirass face first. You bounce back, but he keeps a firm grip on your hand, keeping you upright.

“Shit,” he rumbles out. “You alright?”

“Battered, but I’ll live,” you say, taking a hurried half-step back.

Mortification fills you as Jalyn puts his hands on your shoulders. Then he shuffles you in front of his much taller frame.

“Falling into a warrior’s arms?” Jalyn whispers saucily. “How uncharacteristically _bold_ of you, _Shu’shika_.”

You elbow him none too gently as _Alor_ starts to talk. Jalyn giggles in response, resting an elbow onto your shoulder, using you as his impromptu leaning post. You let him get away with it this time. Dezha doesn’t give you a second look. Either he is trying to avoid drawing attention to you or he has come to expect this level of clumsiness from you. Neither explanation would really offend you, considering you had just slammed into a very large someone’s backside.

“As you can see, we have some new additions,” Dezha says, gesturing at the five warriors. “They’ll be staying with us for a while.”

Silence fills the _karyai_.

“…any questions?” he asks the room at large.

Silence. No one speaks up. Dezha turns to the hunters. You take a moment to catalogue the five warriors behind him. Big Blue takes point and steps forward, hands settling at his sides in what appears to be very carefully manufactured neutrality.

“Where are the kids?” Big Blue asks politely.

“Nursery,” Dezha says, turning to him. “ _Shushi_ , can you show him there?”

_Alor_ has clearly picked up on Big Blue’s tension. Your heart warms at the immediate concern for the children, rather than taking care of his grimy armor or dirty clothing. These warriors look like they have been through hell and back. You hope you can help them settle in and relax.

“Sure,” you say. “I’m heading there now.”

As you turn to leave, Dezha clears his throat. You glance back at him questioningly.

“Bootlace,” Dezha reminds with a grin, “We can’t afford to replace you.”

Mortified, you shuffle out of the crowd and kneel to tie the damn lace up. You double-knot it to make sure it doesn’t come undone. Again. Then you look up to Big Blue. Once more, he looms over you, though his posture is neutral. You get to your feet.

“What can I call you?” you manage to get out.

“Mando is fine,” he responds.

His response is short, but it is not rude. You shrug to yourself. Hannah had told you that her younger _verde_ were protective of their names and identities. You have no problem with that, so you move on to the next train of thought.

“The nursery is this way,” you say. “It’s tucked away.”

He nods as you start up the stairs. From there, you take him down the hallways until you reach the nursery. It’s evident that the children have settled in well, judging by their playful shouts at one another. You hear a clatter and a shriek of laughter, plus a groan of protest from one of the teenagers. You peer around the corner.

“Oh, thank the spirits,” Zephyr groans dramatically. “Please tell me you are here to relieve me.”

“Sorry, _verd’ika_ ,” you say. “I’m just here to bring you a guest.”

Big Blue steps into the doorway.

“PAZ!” Zephyr shrieks.

The room goes silent as all the children look up. Big Blue exhales gustily as he steps into the room. The children move as one coordinated pack to swarm him, chanting something about a ‘Paz Pile’ up at him. One of the girls is halfway up his leg by the time he reaches down to pick her up. He hefts her onto his hip and presses a gentle _kov’nyn_ to her forehead. She loops her arms around his neck and squeezes.

“You stinky,” she says, crinkling her nose.

You aren’t able to muffle your snort as you swiftly back out of the room to give them privacy.

[End Flashback]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando’a Translations:
> 
> Vod(e) – brother(s), comrade(s), friend(s)  
> Buir(e) – parent(s)  
> Ba'vodu(e) – aunt(s), uncle(s)  
> Ba'vodu'ad(e) – cousin(s)  
> Kute – Garments worn underneath ones’ armor  
> Verd(e) – Warrior(s)  
> Verd'ika – little warrior, affectionate term  
> Strill(e) – Basically Mandalorian dogs, like lizards, almost  
> De'kath birds – Type of bird I made up for this story. Like ravens, almost.  
> Cyare – beloved, loved, popular (beloved)  
> Cyar'ika – darling, sweetheart  
> Di'kut - idiot  
> Shu'shika – Little disaster, nickname made up for Reader  
> Mand'alor – Ruler of the Mandalorian people.  
> Alor – Tribe leader. Dezha and Armorer share the responsibilities.  
> Aruetii(se) – Outsider(s)  
> Osik - Shit  
> Karyai – central room in a Mandalorian household. Here, I use it as the place where everyone goes to hang out, eat, and just be with each other. Because in my head, Mandalorians are not good at being alone.  
> Beskar – Mandalorian steel  
> Shebs – Ass  
> Su'cy – Hi


End file.
